


burn your kingdom down

by sorbusaucuparia (orphan_account)



Series: seven devils [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lydia thinks she's losing her mind, Multi, Post Season 4, but there is something coming in the darkness, but threaten each individual member, nothing will ever be the same, she might be, something that will not only threaten the togetherness of the pack, the pack still misses Allison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sorbusaucuparia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were a few things that were to be expected at the beginning of the pack's senior year at Beacon Hills High; one pack member becoming a murder suspect and another being turned into a walking cataclysm were not things that they were expecting.</p><p>Now with the feeling of imminent disaster hanging over their heads, will the pack be able to figure out the reason behind everything in time or will they lose another one of their closest friends before they've even finished their first semester of senior year?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

She _knew_.

It was like a dark presence looming over her.

It was like a dark presence waiting in the shadows.

It was like a dark presence that was almost licking its lips in anticipation because it knew. Just like Lydia knew.

She just thought it was for Stiles.

But Allison?

 _No_.

Lydia couldn’t even imagine that.

* * *

When it had happened, she could feel it. It felt like _she_ was dying; and she was, in a sense. Every other banshee scream of hers paled in comparison to that moment. That moment when she felt her best friend die.

There was no way she could run fast enough to be by Allison's side. She didn't have werewolf speed or the means to exact revenge; she just had a connection to death that she didn't want.

Then had come the funeral. Lydia had stared at her dress, hanging on the back of her door, for hours that morning. Every memory of Allison raced through her mind; every laugh, every tear, every moment that cemented their friendship. Allison's – “ _I believe you. After everything we've been through, I believe you_ ” – echoing in her head as she got ready. They were stuck on repeat during the grief-filled, silent car ride with the Stilinskis. Even as they stood at the cemetery, all Lydia could hear was Allison.

Lydia had learned how to mask her emotions at a young age. Just as she had learned to wear her façade without a single weak spot shining through for someone to exploit; at least until Peter had attacked her on the lacrosse field during the Winter Formal. Yet she was shaking as she stood between Stiles and Scott. Her façade breaking, her emotions flooding out, everything inside her dying, because she was looking at the final resting place of the best friend she had ever had. She was no longer stoic, even though she still tried.

A hand slipped into hers. _Stiles'_. Stiles, who hadn't said anything to her since the night they rid themselves of the Nogitsune. Stiles, who hadn't said anything to her since he had held her in his arms after Aiden died. Stiles, who she knew blamed himself more than he would ever say because _he_ let the Nogitsune into his mind and indirectly caused Allison's death.

Lydia wanted to pull away from his grip. She didn't blame him. She knew everything that had happened were the results of what the Nogitsune did; it may have worn Stiles' face and walked around in his body but it was not Stiles.

No, she wanted to pull away from him because in the days since, he had been nowhere. Lydia had called, she had sent text messages, and she had even gone around to the Stilinskis'. But there was never any responses, except of course for the Sheriff, who told her Stiles wasn't available. At first, she had assumed that he was recovering from what happened. She assumed he was asleep in his bed. Until she had seen a brunette girl sitting on the tree branch outside his bedroom window. _She_ was talking to Stiles while Lydia was sitting alone in her car. _She_ was helping Stiles, or at least doing something with Stiles, while Lydia was alone to cope with her grief. _She_ was who Stiles wanted to be around during this time.

Though despite this, Lydia tightened her grip on his hand and intertwined their fingers. She never looked at him, even though she could see him look over at her for the briefest second. She just kept looking at the casket her best friend was in. She just kept hearing her best friend's words repeated in her head, which effectively blocked out whatever was being said about Allison. She just kept holding Stiles' hand like it was a lifeline because it was. Her legs felt numb, her body ached and she felt as if the ground beneath her was slipping away.

Stiles was her weight. Stiles was her safety net. Stiles was her _anchor_.

Lydia couldn't imagine a situation in which he wouldn't be.

Yet she could feel something change. It was so small, so seemingly insignificant, and so brief that she had barely registered it. It almost felt like, amongst all the pain and grief, something inside her was was twisting. No, bending. No... _disentangling_. Like a loose thread threatening to unravel a sweater.

And she just couldn't rid herself of the feeling that something worse was still to come.

The air was warm, birds were chirping, the sun was shining; there was nothing ominous about the day they buried Allison Argent.

Maybe the sharp, mutual lack of fearful apprehension should have been an omen in itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is my first TW fic (and first fic in a few years) so I hope it isn't too ooc.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it.


	2. a bad moon on the rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a bone-chilling fear that crashed into her like a wave. There was nothing familiar about it. Lydia had gone through events in her head; events like Peter attacking her at the Winter Formal, Jackson's 'death', Jennifer trying to kill her, Allison's death. There was _no_ other moment in her life that had made her feel anything like that. This fear was new and it terrified her.

After a summer of endless research and a revolving door of supernatural creatures in Beacon Hills, the first day of senior year couldn't happen soon enough for Lydia. Something as mundane and ordinary as high school was just what she needed.

Every Monday of her break had been reserved to going through the Argent bestiary with Jordan Parrish.

Every Sunday of her break had been reserved for weekly pack meetings.

Every second or third day of her break was spent doing research with Derek and/or Deaton.

Not to mention that every week there seemed to be a new threat that they had to deal with.

Lydia had gotten seven stitches the first week, a concussion the second and had even gotten kidnapped by a particularly vicious pack of werewolves, who seemed intent of acquiring a “ _true alpha_ ”. She and Kira had spent an entire weekend in a molding basement; they couldn't even talk since the pack had gagged Lydia immediately after capturing her, having somehow been informed that she was a banshee.

Her mother had been oblivious to most of her injuries. Until Scott had called wondering how Lydia's ankle was because they had been “ _hiking. We went hiking last weekend_ ”. Lydia had to then elaborate further on Scott's lie, which resulted in her mother wanting to go hiking with her. That was probably the most painful day of the entire summer break.

Every bad incident from that summer was forgotten the minute the beep of her alarm clock resonated through her room. Her eyes fluttered open, a smile appeared on her lips and she arose with a similar enthusiasm to that of an actress in a breakfast cereal commercial. If only there had been birds singing by her window.

This year there were no suicidal deer running through her windshield or ex-boyfriends running to London without even leaving her a note. It was a brand new school year and she wouldn't let anything stop her from enjoying the last first day of the year. Even though her heart ached slightly when she glanced at a photograph of her and Allison on her night-stand.

“I miss you,” Lydia said softly. She picked up the picture frame and held it in her hand for a moment. The photograph had been taken before everything had changed - before the werewolves, the hunters, the human sacrifices - at a time when she and Allison were just... _normal_.

It had been hard for the first few months after her funeral. Lydia had woken up screaming more than once. Her mother would come in and calm her down while the rest of the pack would call or text to make sure she was okay. The first time it happened, Scott and Derek showed up. The panicked looks on their faces confused her mother almost as much as Allison's ex-boyfriend and a man who was once a wanted fugitive showing up on her doorstep at 2 am. Then Stiles had showed up, baseball bat in hand, flailing his arms slightly and speaking at an almost incomprehensible rate to Derek and Scott. It had been hard to explain them to her mother but Natalie had just nodded her head and said something like “ _a loss like Allison was bound to lead to hyper vigilance_ ”.

Now, her grief didn't weigh heavily on her chest. It didn't feel like her lungs were filled with water whenever Lydia thought of her best friend. Now, when she thought about Allison, her chest only ached slightly but it subsided when she remembered that Allison wouldn't want her to succumb to the grief. Allison would want her to carry on. So that's what she did.

With her head held high and her hips swaying, Lydia would walk into Beacon Hills High. It was senior year. It was not another year of being called “ _crazy_ ” or “ _nut-job_ ”. She was _Lydia Martin_. She owned that hallway.

Or she would if she could put her foot down on the accelerator.

She was sitting behind her steering wheel, looking at her garage door and she couldn't drive. It wasn't for lack of trying either.

It felt like she was frozen. Paralyzed like a victim of the Kanima. But there was no warning from Deaton or the others that a creature like that was in Beacon Hills. She hadn't seen anything out of the corner of her eye or heard anything coming. Yet, she was frozen.

A bone-chilling shiver ran down her spine.

Her eyes watered.

Goosebumps rose on her skin.

A shaky breath escaped her mouth.

She gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles were white.

Her brain told her to scream, but her throat was dry. The only noise that she could make was a soft, strangled yelp that sounded foreign to her.

Then the feeling went away. As quickly as it had appeared.

She was no longer paralyzed.

Lydia exhaled through her nose. Her hands were shaking as she removed them from the steering wheel. Tears were blurring her vision.

This was nothing like banshee prediction. It was like nothing she had ever felt before.

When her hands were still, Lydia drove away from her house and to the only person she thought would have an answer: _Deaton_.

* * *

 “No.”

It was the first word she had spoken to Stiles in months. After defeating Kate in Mexico, Stiles and Lydia had barely spoken to each other. He didn't call her when he was having trouble translating pages of Deaton's archives. She didn't call him when she found a body. They only spoke to each other when others were around.

“You haven't heard the entire idea.”

“No,” Lydia reiterated as she looked away from her locker to Stiles.

He flailed his arms in frustration, groaning as he did. “Just listen to the entire thing.”

“ _No_.”

“Lydia, you have to stop hanging out with Derek. Monosyllabic responses are not how normal people have a conversation. There's usually a back and forth, a meeting of the minds and not even you can sound snarky with a one word response,” Stiles said, accompanied by overzealous gesticulations. He was met with a glare and an arched brow from Lydia as she took a notebook out of her locker. “Okay, _you_ can.”

“Mexico isn't a good destination,” Lydia replied, counting the words with her right hand before wiggling the fingers at him.

“I know we've had some bad experiences down there,” Stiles said before noticing her exasperated expression. “Alright, some _extremely_ bad experiences. But you can't veto an entire country because of them.”

“Yes, I can and you should too. What did Scott say?”

“You're the first person I've shared this idea with.”

A small smile crossed her lips at that.

“Except Malia,” Stiles added. “It was an idea we both came up with.”

Her smile became a thin, tight line at the mention of Malia. She shut her locker a little more violently than she meant to. Stiles didn't even seem to notice.

Lydia liked the girl. Being the spawn of Peter Hale did make Lydia a bit cautious of Malia but she wasn't a bad person. She was an emotionally stunted person – given the fact that she had been a coyote for years and had hated herself for being responsible for the deaths of her mother and sister, Lydia couldn't blame her for this – but she wasn't a bad person. They were even friends but there was something about her that irked Lydia. She just couldn't put her finger on it.

She had thought that walking away from Stiles would stop the conversation. She was wrong. He was right beside her, still trying to convince her.

“Tequila,” Stiles said with his eyebrows raised.

“Electrocution.”

“Tacos.”

“Berserkers.”

“Día de los Muertos.”

“ _Banshee_ ,” Lydia replied flatly as she stopped at the doorway to her next class.

Before he could respond, or get rid of the sheepish grin on his face, the shrill sound of the bell rang throughout the hallway. Students pushed past them, hardly taking notice, but Stiles and Lydia continued to stare at each other. Lydia, because she was waiting for him to try to have the last word, and Stiles, because... Well he had no idea what to say to convince her.

In the end, he didn't say anything. He wanted to, that much was apparent from the look in his eyes. He was dying to say something to her but he couldn't articulate it. So, he just walked away. With his hands stuffed inside his jeans' pockets and his head dropped.

* * *

Deaton had nothing in his archives. At least that was what he told her when he rang during lunch. His morning had been divided between a sick Golden Retriever and research.

“Lydia, are you sure it was supernatural-related?” Deaton's voice carried its normal tranquillity but there was a hint of worry in it.

“As opposed to?” she asked, mindlessly playing with the salad in front of her.

“Fear that you're embarking on a new phase of your life without Allison by your side.”

“You sound like Miss Morrell.”

He chuckled, which sounded strange coming from him. “Come back to the clinic this afternoon, we can discuss this further.”

Lydia slid her phone back into her bag. She had hoped that Deaton would alleviate the knots that had made themselves at home in her stomach. It was more than fear of being without Allison. Her best friend had not been by her side in _months_. Lydia was prepared to face various memorable events without her best friend by her side; the first day of senior year was one of them. Lydia had spent hours locked away in her bedroom ensuring that she would not involuntarily cry when she reached a new milestone in her life and couldn't talk to Allison about it. She had spent days ensuring she wouldn't involuntarily cry at the thought of embarking on new phases of her life that Allison would never get to. Allison would never be able to graduate from high school or go to college or get married or have children. Lydia was well aware she was embarking on a new phase of her life, but she wasn't fearful or upset about it. She had trained herself not to be.

But what she had felt that morning? It was a bone-chilling fear that crashed into her like a wave. There was nothing familiar about it. Lydia had gone through events in her head; events like Peter attacking her at the Winter Formal, Jackson's 'death', Jennifer trying to kill her, Allison's death. There was _no_ other moment in her life that had made her feel anything like that. This fear was new and it terrified her.

Having let her mind wander, Lydia was surprised when she heard someone repeat her name.

 _Kira_.

She and Scott had taken the bench opposite Lydia. They both smiled at her when Lydia's gaze left her salad.

“Are you okay?” Kira asked with a look of concern.

“Yes,” Lydia replied, twirling a piece of lettuce on her fork. “Just thinking.”

“About what? It's the first day back,” Stiles said, around the fries in his mouth, as he sat down beside her.

Malia was right behind him and took the seat next to him. “Are you worried about math? I am.”

“No, I'm just thinking about... things,” Lydia said.

The other four continued to talk, not noticing her silence. Everything seemed to blur around Lydia. It was the only thought in her mind: there was something coming in the darkness. Deaton might not believe it, Lydia didn't think she even believed it, but it was there.

An inexorable _something_ was coming. Or it was already in Beacon Hills. She couldn't be sure; at least not until a flock of kamikaze birds broke through the windows of her English classroom.

* * *

Jordan Parrish looked incredibly different out of his deputy uniform. He looked incredibly different sitting on her lounge, reading through pages of the Argent bestiary. It still made Lydia smile.

They had been doing this for months. Reading and re-reading. There was never anything more to find but they kept doing it.

Even when Jordan became frustrated.

Even when Lydia continuously fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.

Even when they both began to believe that they would never know what Jordan was.

Lydia had promised him that she would help and that was what she was going to do.

The only thing that she thought he could be was a phoenix. The way he had been able to walk away from a burning car with no burns or scarring. The only problem was that the Argents had little lore on phoenixes. Lydia had tried calling Chris to ask but he was in France... Or London, she could never remember. He had disappeared to Europe after Mexico. He said he was working with other Argents. His reason: to strengthen the Argents. Lydia didn't believe that; she thought he was lonely. Chris Argent had lost his wife and his daughter in the span of twelve months, his sister ‘died’ only to resurface as a were-jaguar and his father admitted that he would sacrifice any member of his family if it helped his self-preservation; Chris Argent was on a never-ending train of misery and trauma that almost rivalled Derek's.

“Do you think we should call it?” Jordan asked as he looked at the clock on the wall.

Lydia nodded, shuffling her papers together. He had come over at seven. It was nine-thirty now, which wasn't the latest he had ever stayed over - one night had turned into one morning and Lydia had woken up to Jordan snoring lightly as he slept against her legs on the floor - but she was exhausted.

“Lydia, thank you for this," he said. "I don't know many other people who would--”

“Help go through a bestiary written in Archaic Latin to find out how you could survive being set of fire?”

Jordan let out a soft chuckle before smiling at her. “Exactly.”

Lydia smiled at him. She liked being around him. He felt comfortable and safe; Lydia thought that if she could fall for a guy like this, she would have a safe haven. Jordan Parrish could be her oasis in a sea of supernatural creatures and death. But she couldn't fall for him. She tried. Repeatedly. But she seemed to have a penchant for the bad boys. Her weakness.

Once Jordan left, Lydia put her pages of the bestiary back into their folder. It lived in the secret compartment of her dresser, which was the one hiding place in her room her mother didn't know about. But her mother wasn't going to be home for a week so Lydia didn't worry about leaving it on the coffee table. No one was going to find it. Lydia was too tired to carry it upstairs.

Lydia was too tired to carry herself upstairs.

She laid herself out on the lounge, stretching and covering herself with a blanket. Her eyes couldn't stop fluttering open each time she tried to close them.

_Hyper-vigilance; the persistent feeling of being under threat, the unyielding motivation to maintain an increased awareness of the environment, being constantly attentive._

When her eyes opened again, Lydia swore she saw Allison standing in front of her. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a memory. It felt real. She _looked_ real.

“Allison?” Lydia whispered softly. She sat up, wrapping the blanket around her and staring at into the darkness to see her best friend.

But there was nothing. Just an empty space.

Lydia tried to lay down and sleep. It didn't work. Counting sheep, singing to herself, making lists of things that bored her; nothing she did had any effect. Seeing Allison was like a jolt of energy and Lydia had no idea what to do with her new-found vitality.

Soon she found herself behind her steering wheel, navigating the dimly-lit streets of Beacon Hills.

It was peaceful.

_Serene._

She was tempted to just continue driving around Beacon Hills. Until she pulled into a parking space. It didn't even require any second thought. There was no more temptation to drive around Beacon Hills. There was only one thing on her mind.

Her heels clicked with each step and she _knew_ he could hear her. It wasn't even a surprise that the door was open. He was sitting on his couch, reading a newspaper, when she entered. Neither of them had to say anything. They knew why she was there; they had been doing this tango for the last two months.

Lydia simply walked over and straddled him, throwing the newspaper to the side. Derek wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him as their lips met with an unbridled ferocity.

Soon she was in his arms, being lifted up, without ever breaking their kiss. He walked her over to his bed, just like he always did.

This was their routine.

They knew it well.

And it felt just as good as it did the first time.

* * *

She still couldn't sleep. It was 12:31 am. At least from what his alarm clock said. Lydia had been sitting up against his wall for at least an hour. She couldn't sleep but didn't want to leave. Despite everything that had happened between them _before_ they had started sleeping together, Lydia felt normal when she was with Derek.

Their whole arrangement had started after an unintentional incident one night when they were supposed to be researching the latest threat of the week. Lydia couldn't even remember who had made the first move. She knew there had been arguing. There had definitely been some glaring. Which resulted in Derek complaining about being assigned research duty; though, they both knew he had allocated himself research duty following a harrowing moment in which he and Braeden had found themselves at the hands of non-code-following hunters. Then suddenly he and Lydia had been horizontal on his couch. Then against the wall. Then on his bed. Then on the floor.

Then it became a regular thing.

Lydia hadn't even realized how much she relied on being with him until she and Kira had been taken. When the pack had found them, the first thing Lydia did was embrace him. That night, he held her and they just slept. They weren't in love. There was no unrequited adoration on either side. But there was this unspoken bond between them. They weren't each other's anchor or tether; there was just a _bond_.

Her gaze drifted to him. He always looked peaceful like this. Most people looked peaceful when they slept but it was different on Derek. There was an unusual softness to him.

“Stop watching me,” he let out, gruffly and sleepily.

Lydia couldn’t stop the involuntary pout on her lips. “I'm not.”

He opened one eye to look at her before smirking. “Then what are you doing?”

“Do you miss Braeden?”

It was the one thing they had never spoken about. How Braeden had left Derek in the middle of the night without so much as a letter or a text message. How Derek had then spent almost a month trying to track her. No one in the pack brought in up around him but they knew it hurt him. Braeden had been the one _normal_ relationship he had, or it was the least traumatic when compared to the others.

Yet the question didn’t faze him.

“Do you miss Jackson?”

“I asked you first.”

Derek let out a deep chortle. “Are you five?”

“Do you?”

He opened his eyes to look at her; it was almost as if he was observing her expression in the dim light to figure out how to phrase his response, like he thought Lydia would feel affronted by his words.

“Yes.” His voice was tender in a very _un-Derek_ manner.

Silence filled the loft. Her eyes met his. This is where she liked being with him. Not in his bed, but in the shadows. There were no false frontages when they were in shadows. They bared their souls to each other; whether words were exchanged or not. They took a piece of each other, held it close while hiding themselves from the rest of the world. When they were together, there was nothing else. Just them and the silence. Lydia had hated silence after Allison’s death – it always swiftly became filled with memories and echoes of her best friend – but with Derek, she didn’t and when they were laying together, Lydia didn’t feel alone.

Scott had Kira. Stiles had Malia. Lydia hadn’t had anyone. At least not until Derek.

But now they had each other.

She leaned down to kiss him, which took him by surprise. It was unlike the passionate ones they usually exchanged. It was soft, delicate and precise. As he tried to pull her closer, Lydia moved away.

“Lydia?”

“Yes?” she said, adjusting her back against his wall.

“What about…” Derek at a loss for words wasn’t something that usually happened. “Don’t you want something normal?”

“Are you saying that a banshee sleeping with a werewolf _isn’t_ normal?”

Even in the dimly lit loft, she could see him roll his eyes. “Not when the banshee could be with a deputy.”

Jordan had been a topic of multiple conversations since she and Derek had begun. There had only been one conversation in which Lydia had discussed the possibility of falling for Jordan; she hadn’t told Derek about her proclivity for bad boys, but it had to be blatantly obvious when looking at her past relationships: Jackson, Aiden, even the conga line of guys she had slept with after Jackson left. Derek was the one relatively good guy she had ever let in her bed, and he had tried to _kill_ her once. Lydia thought about blaming Beacon Hills – the town had become a literal _beacon_ for the supernatural and evil in the world, so it could just as easily be responsible for bad decisions and predilections – but she knew it was her. There was something about being the good girl who was sullied by the bad boys; it gave her a rush of power. The rush of power had gradually diminished but it hadn’t stopped the weakness; it wavered at times, it was infuriating at others, but it never vanished. Not completely.

“I don’t want a boyfriend, and Jordan Parrish isn’t someone who could _just_ be a distraction.”

“But I am.”

“Because you’re safe.”

Derek laughed. “I’m safe?”

“You're not a monster,” she replied, with a half-smile. When she noticed the expression on his face, her eyes compulsorily rolled. “You’re not a _monstrous_ monster. I know you. I know the type of person you are. You won't hurt me and there's no chance that you'll break my heart. Other than trying to kill me when you thought I was the Kanima, you've never wanted to cause me harm which makes you--”

“Safe?”

“While _I_ am neither a sociopathic bitch responsible for multiple Hale deaths _or_ a sociopathic dark druid masquerading as a high school English teacher and ritualistically sacrificing people. I may occasionally walk around in a fugue state and hear voices in my head but--”

“You’re safe for me.”

Derek propped himself up against the wall. His finger tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and he smiled at her; it was a gentle, even sweet, gesture. Sitting there, he was a vast contrast from the man who usually only had pessimistic and/or snarky comments to add during pack meetings. If it was different – if _they_ were different – Lydia would fall in love with Derek effortlessly. But they weren’t different people; she was the immune banshee and he was the ill-fated werewolf. The ill-fated werewolf who was still in love with the mercenary who had left without a forwarding address.

“We just can’t tell anyone else,” Derek added.

“Unless we want to instigate an inevitably ceaseless argument on the emerging incestuous nature of our pack and the importance of pack over romance. I’ve watched Scott and Stiles argue the merits of the comic-book superheroes; there’s flailing limbs and shouting and, on one occasion, _tears_. They never stop. Even when they’re hoarse, they _keep going_. Do you really want to listen to that?”

Derek’s nose immediately turned up in annoyance, possibly because he was imagining the exact situation she had described. “I would probably kill them.”

“Exactly. Then you would go to jail and there’s nothing remotely appealing about conjugal visits,” Lydia said, turning her own nose up. “Or the Sheriff would kill you.”

“It stays between us,” Derek said with a nod. As if that wasn’t already the unspoken agreement.

“Yes.”

“ _Yes_.”

Both Derek and Lydia were still when they heard the second “ _yes _”. The second “ _yes _” that hadn’t been uttered by either of them. The second “ _yes _” that seemed to echo throughout the loft. The second “ _yes _” that belonged to a third party. A third party who had a weakness for scarves and wore a perpetual expression of indifference on his face.________

_Isaac._

Lydia and Derek turned to face the entrance like they didn’t already know who was standing there. Neither said anything. They just stared at the beta who had left abruptly after Allison’s death. He looked so comfortable. It was almost like he hadn’t just caught them in a secret and compromising position. Isaac stared back at them; one hand on his suitcase while the other ran through his hair.

“So, what have I missed?”

* * *

She knew it was stupid. Who agreed to go to Beacon Hills Preserve in the middle of the night? But she wanted to be rebellious. She had never been rebellious before.

Now she was a sophomore. Now she was the new girl at a new school. Her life was moving by so quickly and she didn’t want to always follow the rules.

That’s why she had answered his text messaged instead of rolling over and going back to sleep.

She wanted to go to a secret party in the preserve. She wanted to dance and socialize and be the popular girl. She wanted the cute boy to ask her out.

Then it had happened. He was somewhat distant at school, like he carried a heavy burden, but then he had asked her if she wanted to meet him elsewhere. Anyone else and she would have been suspicious. But there was something about him. Something so innocent yet so tempting.

She was sure she had taken a wrong turn somewhere. She couldn’t hear the music or the people. The only noise was the rustling of leaves.

Her eyes searched the darkness for him, her phone acting as a torch.

She called out his name.

There was no response.

She found a seat on an old tree stump and checked her phone.

_12:58._

And no text message from him.

She had been waiting for him for 20 minutes and he hadn’t even sent her a text.

If her parents woke up and found her bed empty, she would be grounded until her hair was gray. But she wanted to rebellious. She wanted him to like her. She didn’t want to be the friendless loner.

Though now she was starting to think it was just a cruel prank.

She tried to stand up but there was suddenly something tight around her throat. It cut off her oxygen rapidly. She tried to claw at it, wincing as she drew blood.

She was gasping for breath. Her eyes filling with hot tears. She tried to scream but she couldn’t.

She was dying. _She was only a sophomore_.

She fell, her back hitting the tree stump.

The last image she ever saw was stars littering an otherwise dark night sky.

A wet, gurgle fell from her lips as her eyes fluttered shut. It was barely audible. It was barely coherent. But she was trying to call out his name one final time. She was praying that he would save her.

“ _Liam_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't know if I went all over this place with this first chapter. I tried not to. I was just trying to lay a basic background to the story while ensuring that it was interesting _and_ set everything in motion. Let me know what you think.


	3. the poison in your bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no doubt in her mind that she would be the topic of many conversations for the rest of the day; even if it was as small as just calling her the town whack-job _again_.

“ _Yes._ ”

 _Yes_? How had one little word rendered Lydia Martin speechless? Especially coming from the mouth of someone who was barely significant to her. She scowled. That wasn't true. Isaac had become significant to her the minute he had started meaning something to Allison; maybe even before that, because he was pack and had saved her from an arrow that was about to make her skull its new home.

She didn't want anyone to know about her and Derek. She didn't want Scott or Stiles to overanalyze it or make fun of it or _judge_ her for it. Their opinion meant more than she had realized; after Allison, they were her best friends. _They_ were her best friends. _They_ were her best friends, who had hardly spoken to her over the summer unless they had to ask about something to do with the supernatural.

Then it hit her.

Lydia had become the Velma of their pack.

She didn't want to be the Velma; she hated the color orange.

She rested her head on the hands that had begun to grip the steering wheel like a lifeline. The headache was back. The searing, tear-inducing headache that had been plaguing her sporadically for the over the past two hours. It had woken her up from a gruesome nightmare at 5 am, caused her to tear down her shower curtain at 6 am and led her to break a coffee cup only a few minutes before she had left. No pill alleviated the pain either so she was forced to suffer the complete magnitude of it.

The others had been brief, only two or three minutes in length. But this one was longer. This one left her fingers aching, as she helplessly gripped the steering wheel. This one made her a prisoner in her own body, unable to think of anything other than the pressure inside her head. Her phone was buzzing on the passenger seat but she couldn't answer it.

Then it disappeared. There was no slow fade until the pain became somewhat bearable. It had immediately vanished, leaving no internal trace of its presence. Externally was another story.

Lydia looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her make-up was running. Tears stained her cheeks. She let out a shaky breath as she reached for her purse, desperately searching for concealer. She had been stared at enough for one lifetime.

* * *

“So one minute he’s reminiscing about an old football game, waving his piece of bacon around as he spoke - which was delightful, by the way, the amount of grease that flew onto the table and my face was awe-inspiring - then he gets a message from work and leaves a Sheriff-sized hole in the front door,” Stiles said as he and Scott pulled open the double doors and walked into the school hallway.

“So, a murder?”

“From the look on his face... _yeah_.”

Scott surveyed the other students before lowering his voice. “A supernatural murder?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed just slightly. “The ability to gain any information severely weakened the moment he left. I have to say the man's surprisingly nimble given his age; I swear I saw cartoon clouds of dust form under his feet.”

They walked in silence down the hallway until Scott stopped. Stiles turned on his heel. There was a protracted pause as Scott thought. His brow creased when he met his best friend’s eye.

“Lydia didn’t scream,” Scott said.

“Maybe she’s learning how to control it.”

“I know we talk about it, but can actually she do that? Choose when she wants to scream?”

Stiles’ expression shifted to one of exasperation when he realized Scott was waiting for _him_ to answer. He began wildly gesticulating with his hands. “What do I have PhD in banshee? How would I know that?”

Scott started to say something but was distracted by something at the end of the hallway. Stiles turned around to see Kira practically bouncing toward them, her usual beaming expression greeting both of them. Glancing back at Scott, a small smile formed on Stiles’ face, his exasperation a distant memory. After Allison, he wasn’t sure if he would ever see his best friend have the same mesmerized expression, the one customarily reserved for Allison, aimed at another girl. It was nice to see his best friend like that again. _In love_. Even if he hadn’t said the words aloud – for what Stiles thought was fear of replacing Allison – that was what Scott was: _in love_.

Kira was standing beside Stiles, talking enthusiastically about something that he couldn’t quite make out because his attention was drawn to the strawberry blonde who had just entered the hallway. Even from afar, he knew there was something wrong with her. No one else may have noticed but Stiles had been loving Lydia Martin from a distance for almost a decade; he could decipher her emotions even when hidden behind a blasé expression.

A blasé expression like the one she currently wore as she made her way to her locker. Stiles, realizing he had been fixated on her for an unusual amount of time, turned his concentration back to the couple he was standing with. They hadn’t even seemed to notice his inattentiveness. He caught the last word of Scott’s sentence: _murder _.__

“Dude, we have to stop using that word at school.”

Scott seemed faintly startled at Stiles’ addition to the conversation. “What? Murder?”

Exasperated wasn’t a strong enough word for what Stiles felt but he was sure it was the word that best described the current expression he was wearing. Either that or the longer: ‘ _are you freaking kidding me?_ ’.

“I would say that was the word,” Kira answered, glancing between the two boys.

Lydia watched her friends out of the corner of her eye as she attempted to make herself appear busy. Her hands had resumed shaking faintly and her breathing had become shallow and uneven; it was almost as if her body was preparing itself for another headache. If any of them came over, they would notice. Then would come the questions that she didn’t have the answers to. She had no idea what this was. She could attribute it to feeling ill, but they would see through that.

A minute wave of nausea hit her. Lydia closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose, and tried to slow down the quick thumping of her heart; no doubt it was echoing in Scott’s ears. It had to be supernatural. It _had_ to be, or else… Lydia didn’t want to think of the alternative. The supernatural could be handled, they could face anything supernatural, but the alternative couldn’t be fixed by collaborating with Deaton or even getting bitten. She was unlike the others. She was _immune_.

Her eyes opened. Just in time to see Stiles excusing himself from his conversation and moving towards her. With a flick of her hair and a quick look in the mirror she had attached to the inside of her locker door, Lydia prepared herself for the predictable rapid-fire list he’d probably been rehearsing all night. The list of reasons why she should agree to go to Mexico with the rest of the pack, even though it didn’t seem like they had been told about his plan yet.

The first thing out of Stiles’ mouth when he stopped in front of her?

“What’s wrong?”

He’d noticed. Lydia subtly peeked at herself again in the mirror; her makeup wasn’t smeared like before, there were no tears but he could tell. 

Yet she couldn’t bring herself to put it into words.

Instead simply arching an eyebrow and taking a notebook out of her locker, Lydia feigned confusion. “What?”

“Something’s wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she snapped, her words harsher than she intended. Stiles didn’t even flinch.

“Lydia, I--”

“Want to recite your list of reasons why I should be agree to vacationing in Mexico? Go ahead.”

Stiles, realizing that it was fruitless to badger her, leaned against the lockers. “Number one: Mexico introduced chocolate, corn, and chilies to the world. Number two: the Chihuahua is the world’s smallest dog and is named after a Mexican state – I thought you’d enjoy that because of Prada,” Stiles seemed incredibly proud at this fact which made a small smile appear on Lydia’s lips. “Number three: The Aztecs adopted human sacrifice from earlier cultures because they believed the universe would come to an end and the sun would cease to move without human blood.”

“Stiles.”

“What? I’m not saying we should be pro-human sacrificing, especially after the Darach, but I thought it was interesting.”

“Stiles,” Lydia repeated, her voice softer, her hand gripping onto the door of her locker.

“Okay, okay. Number four: Snakes repeatedly…”

His voice faded away when she closed her eyes again. The pounding in her head had returned. A gasp escaped her lips. Her eyes began to water.

“ _Lydia_.”

It wasn’t Stiles. It was deep and sent a chill down her spine, making the same bloodcurdling fear from the previous day begin to emerge within her.

“No,” Lydia uttered shakily.

“ _Lydia_.”

“Stop.”

“ _Lydia_.”

The pain of her headache began to ease, as if the voice was allowing it to. She was able to shake her head without furthering the agony. Her grip tightened on the locker door. “Leave me alone.”

“ _Open your eyes, Lydia_.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. Lydia shook her head again. Her brow creased as she squeezed her eyes shut, tighter and tighter in an attempt to make everything disappear. Her heart was thumping against her chest, harder and faster than it had for a while.

 _Not since the night Allison died_.

There was a lump in her throat that seemed to be expanding rapidly. Her breathing was shaky and erratic; she tried to inhale through her nose in an attempt to calm herself. It sounded unfamiliar to her ears, like it was someone else.

“ _Open your eyes_!” the voice shouted.

And she did.

Lydia was still standing at her locker. The only difference was that there was no one else. No Stiles. No Kira. No Scott. No Coach standing at his office doorway, yelling at Greenberg to stop sending him emails with links to cat videos on the internet.

Lydia was alone.

Terrified and alone.

She walked into the middle of the hallway and spun around, desperate to find _anyone_ she knew. Her breathing became even more shallow and erratic until she could barely inhale; she wondered if this was how Stiles felt during a panic attack. There was no stopping the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

Then it crashed into her like a wave. The fear washed over her, stilling everything within her. Her breathing levelled out, or stopped; she wasn’t sure. Her headache disappeared entirely. Even the tears in her eyes seemed to be stagnant, evaporating as she stood motionless. Her gaze stuck on Coach’s office door. It had to, because she knew what was behind her. She knew what was watching her from the double door entrance.

The _something_.

The something that was transforming her back into the walking cataclysm Peter first created when he used her mind like his own personal playground.

There was a footstep. Then another. It felt like all the blood rushed out of her.

“ _Do you know what’s happening, Lydia? Why you can feel it? Why you can hear me when no one else can?_ ”

Lydia shook her head. Tears once again began welling in her eyes.

“ _You’re not like the others. You’re a limited edition_.”

The fear encompassed her, compelling her to fall to her knees. It began to tighten around her, cutting off her oxygen, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Lydia.”

“No.” It was barely a whisper. Her breathing became shallow and erratic once more as she shook her head again. “No.”

“Lydia,” a familiar voice urged as two warm hands cupped her cheeks. “Lydia, open your eyes.”

“No.”

“Lydia, open your eyes.” There was more warmth this time. More... _love_.

So she complied.

The first thing she saw were two doting, anxious eyes staring into her own.

 _Stiles_.

The second thing she saw? Dozens of faces focused on her, which was the opposite of what she wanted. She cringed; Lydia had never wanted to experience what she had sophomore year a second time. At least they hadn’t formed a circle around her. They all just stood to the side, against their lockers, not even maintaining the illusion of having their own conversations. There was no doubt in her mind that she would be the topic of many conversations for the rest of the day; even if it was as small as just calling her the town whack-job _again_.

Scott and Kira were crouching behind Stiles; the concern radiating off the three of them would have been heart-warming if Lydia wasn’t mortified. The concern coming from Coach, however, did make Lydia feel marginally better.

“Stilinski, McCall,” Coach shouted, pointing to the two. “Help Lydia to the nurse’s station.”

They were hesitant at first, given the look they shared, but did what he told them to. Scott took her left arm, Stiles took her right, and they lifted her to her feet.

“I’m fine.” Lydia barely recognized her own voice. It sounded so… broken.

She tried to pull away from them, but they held her in place; Stiles’ grip firmer than Scott’s. Kira had the notebooks Lydia had scattered on the floor in her hands. She trailed behind them as the boys walked Lydia to the nurse.

“The rest of you little miscreants head to class,” Lydia heard Coach yell as they rounded the corner. “Put that phone away, Greenberg, and if I see anything on the internet, you’ll be doing suicide runs until you die.”

* * *

“Stiles, stop it.”

Lydia had been in the nurse’s station for ten minutes. Even though she told them she was fine, they hadn’t let her leave. Scott and Kira had left for class when they noticed the iciness of Lydia’s glare; it was hard to pretend she was fine when her friends wouldn’t let her. All she wanted to do was stand up and leave but Stiles had taken a place in front of the entrance. He wouldn’t let her leave and he wouldn’t let her glare intimidate him. But since the nurse had gone to call Lydia’s mother, Stiles’ naturally interrogatory expression had emerged.

“Stop what?”

“Your face,” Lydia snapped. Her eyes met his with a glare that would send anyone else running. But Stiles? It didn’t even unnerve him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She moved off the nurse’s table, reaching for her handbag, and Stiles took a step toward her. Lydia arched an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“What are _you_ doing?”

“I have Chemistry right now.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Stiles replied as he took the handbag from her. She tried to say something but he interrupted. “Lydia, I have never seen you like that. Actually, I have; you were writing _someone help me_ backwards on the board in Econ. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Stiles.”

“Lydia, don’t…” he started to say, his hand reaching out for hers, before the door opened again. Stiles jumped back as if frightened by the elderly, frail nurse who was entering.

When _she_ told him to go to class, he actually listened. He handed Lydia her bag and picked up his own without saying a word. But she knew their conversation was far from over. It was written all over his face. He was scared for her… or of her. Or maybe a mixture of both. Either way, it made a lump form in her throat. A lump that didn’t disappear even after he was gone.

* * *

It had been torture for the rest of the day. Stiles hadn’t been able to focus on anything. Every time he tried, his mind just replayed the scene that had transpired that morning. He had never wanted to see Lydia like that again. She had looked so scared, so fragile, and he hadn’t been able to do anything. All he wanted to do was talk to her but she ignored his texts, ignored his gaze, and didn’t even sit with them during lunch. Kira told them that Lydia had been forced to see Miss Morrell, and that was the only time they talked about her. Malia started talking and Stiles nodded his head when he felt he had to, his fingers intertwined with hers, but couldn’t focus on the words.

By the time Stiles and Scott found themselves in the locker room, changing for a practice lacrosse game, Stiles was sure he was losing his mind.

“We have to talk about it,” he said which broke the silence between him and Scott. When Scott gave him a bewildered look, Stiles couldn’t control his hand movements. “ _Lydia_.”

His best friend nodded and turned back to his locker. “I don’t think we should.”

“Why the hell not, Scott?”

“Because Kira told me that Lydia’s... She doesn’t want us to talk about it.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

Scott glanced at him before sighing. “She says she’s fine.”

Stiles stopped. Disbelief and anger rushing over him. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, that’s what she told Kira,” he answered. “We can’t force Lydia to do anything or _say_ anything until she’s ready. When she wants to let us in, she will. But until then, we can’t force her.”

He knew Scott had a point. There was no one on the planet who could force Lydia to do anything she didn’t want to do. Yet, Stiles still shook his head. He still tightened his jaw. He still looked at his best friend with annoyance and anger because they _had_ to know what was going on with Lydia. They had lost too many people to ignore the obvious signs of trouble just because someone didn’t want to talk.

“You can. Use your true alpha werewolf-itude and make her tell us.”

“Stiles--”

“You _saw_ her, Scott.” His voice was quieter than intended.

The locker room door opened loudly. It broke the gaze between Stiles and Scott, who went back to putting their clothes in their lockers in silence, and effectively lowered the other conversations that were happening between the other lacrosse players. They heard Coach make an astonished yelp before a hand clapped someone’s back.

“Mr Lahey, and here I thought we’d gotten rid of you.”

Scott and Stiles turned back to each other, their eyes wide and their mouths agape. They shuffled awkwardly, only their heads popping out from behind the lockers, and stared at Isaac. He noticed them and gave them a small wave before walking over. He didn’t say anything. Scott and Stiles just kept staring at him.

When Isaac began to take his cardigan off, he cast a glare at the both of them. “Do you mind?”

They averted their eyes, moving to lean against the lockers behind them. Scott was the first to speak. “You’re supposed to be in France.”

“I came back.”

“Obviously,” Stiles deadpanned.

“How?” Scott asked. “I mean, you left halfway through junior year.”

“Morrell.”

“ _Morrell? Morrell?_ ” Stiles rolled his eyes at Isaac’s ‘ _obviously_ ’ expression. “How?”

Isaac turned to face the other two, folding his arms across his chest. “I didn’t really ask a lot of questions. I called Deaton, told him I was coming back and that was it.”

Isaac and Stiles locked eyes. It was challenge, neither would break the gaze. Coach told them to get their asses on the field but they didn’t move. At least not until Scott patted Isaac on the shoulder.

“It’s good to have you back.”

That was it. Isaac turned his attention to Scott and Stiles walked away to wait for them at the exit. He vaguely acknowledged Liam, who was running late, but his mind wandered back to Lydia. It had been quiet in Beacon Hills for the last week. There was nothing that Deaton or Derek had brought to their attention. There was nothing coming after them at school.

Then he remembered the murder.

It had to do with the murder. At least that was what he told himself. Stiles couldn’t believe that they’d reached a point in their lives where the possibility of blaming something on the supernatural seemed perfectly natural.

The four walked out of the locker rooms together; Scott introducing Isaac to Liam and subsequently explaining how he had turned Liam, Isaac trying to comprehend everything that had happened while he was gone, Liam nodding his head to Scott’s explanation and Stiles still thinking about Lydia. They were only brought out of their own world by Coach’s sharp whistle and the threat of doing suicide runs until graduation.

Lydia was waiting by the bleachers. It was made obvious she wasn’t waiting for him when she blatantly ignored his eyes. It was made even more obvious when her hand reached out and pulled Isaac away from the other three without a care. Stiles kept looking at her, at the two of them; his only thought being how weird the situation was.

“I want to talk to you,” Lydia said, once the other three were on the field.

“There are two werewolves with enhanced hearing abilities just over there,” Isaac motioned to Scott and Liam with a nod of his head.

“I just need to know that you’re not going to--”

“I’m not.”

She opened her mouth to question him. It was only when she noticed the look in his eyes that Lydia realized he was telling the truth. He didn’t have to verbalize it because she knew the exact reason. _Allison_. Lydia was Allison’s best friend, and Isaac would never do anything to hurt her, even if Allison was no longer around to chastise him for it.

“Is that coyote girl?” Isaac continued. He pointed toward Malia, who talking to Stiles on the side of the field and ignoring Coach’s whistle blows to move off to the bleachers.

“She prefers _Malia_.”

Isaac smirked before looking back at Lydia. “Are you okay with that?”

Lydia folded her arms across her chest, eyebrow raised at him. “Excuse me?”

“Are you okay with _that_?” He punctuated his question with another finger in the direction of Stiles and Malia, who were sharing a kiss in spite of Coach being directly next to them.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her jaw untightened before she spoke. She knew that any sign of annoyance or speaking through clenched teeth would lead to him asking more questions.

“Well he’s been obsessed with you since the third grade.”

“And now he’s moving past it to have a functional, healthy relationship.” The irritating look of amusement on his face made her roll her eyes. “Why are you back in Beacon Hills, Isaac?”

There was a protracted pause after her question. It wasn’t even due to Coach’s combination of whistle blows and yells of “ _asses on the field_ ”. Isaac’s gaze wandered from her to the woods that acted as a background to the lacrosse field. It was like he was trying to come up with a sufficient reason, or a feasible lie that wouldn’t lead to a cross-examination.

“It was time to come home,” he said after a moment.

“To what home?” It was more severe than she had intended.

His eyes narrowed before he shrugged. “Maybe I just came back to torture you.”

Stiles continued to watch Isaac and Lydia. There was something about the combination that made his blood boil a little bit. The two had barely ever talked before Isaac had left and now it seemed like it was just a normal thing between them. He couldn’t even see any discomfort or tension as they spoke. When his curiosity grew too much, he turned in Scott’s direction and mouthed: “What they talking about?”

Scott shook his head before mouthing: “I’m not eavesdropping for you.”

Stiles’ face scrunched up in frustration but Scott ignored him. His eyes moving to look at something behind Stiles. He nodded toward it, and Stiles reluctantly glanced around, assuming it was nothing.

The Sheriff, followed by two deputies, was walking over to Coach. There was a distinct feeling of déjà vu,. Stiles walked backwards until he was standing beside Scott. The two watched as Coach and the Sheriff talked.

“It’s about the murder, isn’t it?” Stiles whispered, even though there were no other lacrosse players within hearing distance.

Scott nodded. “It was sophomore. Jenna Kelley.”

Stiles looked between his father and Lydia. Lydia seemed to be relying on Isaac’s hearing as well. Then the words that Stiles never expected to fall out of Scott’s mouth did.

“Liam’s a person of interest.”

Liam’s head spun in their direction. His fear and shock radiated across the field. Stiles tried to offer sympathy but he was trying to imagine the situation that would result in Liam becoming a person of interest. There hadn’t been a full moon that week. For the first time since the nurse’s station, Lydia met his gaze, mirroring the look of confusion that had more than likely spread across his face. Her brow furrowed as she whispered something to Isaac who shook his head; Stiles wished he had enhanced hearing at that moment, desperate to know what questions Lydia had and whether they were the same as his.

Coach waved Liam over. The lacrosse players on the field huddled together, Stiles didn’t need werewolf hearing to know what they were talking about.

“What’s going on?”

Stiles wasn’t proud of the fact that Kira’s sudden appearance behind them made him jump. Nor was he proud of the fact that he had produced a small yelp. Scott, on the other hand, couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.

“Liam’s a person of interest in a murder,” Scott replied, his grin fading.

“I thought we weren’t using that word anymore.”

“I think that’s just when other people are around.”

Scott turned his gaze to Stiles, expectantly waiting for an answer. Instead Stiles pointed over to his father. “We have a bigger problem.”

His father and the two deputies were escorting Liam off the field, who looked panicked and searched for the face of his alpha for comfort. Coach unsuccessfully tried to gain the attention of his team but everyone was engrossed in their own conversations about everything that had transpired that day; Lydia’s breakdown in the hallway being outshined by Liam’s visit to the Sheriff’s Department.

Stiles and Scott ran off the field when Coach began yelling about the more important things in life than gossip, like listening to people when they say not to streak in 40 degree weather. They made it to the Jeep in time to see two Sheriff’s Department patrol cars pulling out of the car park. There was no second thoughts about following them. Both Scott and Stiles were desperate for answers.

As he drove out of the school parking lot, Stiles’ eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. Lydia was getting in her own car. Even after their lengthy discussion about it when they had arrived home from the motel, Lydia hadn’t learned how to inconspicuously trail them. He rolled his eyes. Scott was rapidly talking beside him, faster than he thought he had ever heard his best friend speak, about how Liam couldn’t be guilty of murder. How he was learning how to control his impulse. _How he wasn’t a killer_.

Somewhere between the school and the Sheriff’s Department, Stiles lost sight of Lydia’s car. Unless she had decided against using his shortcut – which he was proud to say cut seven and a half minutes off travel time – and instead took the normal route, Lydia wasn’t concerned about Liam’s new murder suspect status.

Or there was another body.

He put that thought in the far recesses of his mind and parked. Scott had practically leapt from the passenger side before the Jeep had stopped moving. He sprinted into the building while Stiles was still fumbling with his keys. Scott was a blur before he was stopped at the front desk by Parrish.

The first thing Stiles heard when he entered the building was Parrish trying to calm down Scott. His voice was lowers after noticing the many other Sheriff’s Department employees whose eyes were on the situation in front of them. Parrish silently led them to an unoccupied section of the precinct before leaning against the wall.

“You can’t just come barging in here,” he let out with a sigh.

“Why is he a suspect?” It came out in a low bark. Stiles had to bite his tongue to stop himself from voicing any of dog remarks that flooded his brain.

“There’s probable cause.”

“He’s sixteen.”

“Oh, so you two were never questioned by the Sheriff’s Department when you were sixteen?”

A proud smile appeared on Stiles’ face; partly because he enjoyed Parrish in sarcasm-mode, partly because his mind wandered to some of the less-than-legal things he and Scott had done. Scott didn’t seem to share his feelings. Most notably evident by the way his eyes flashed red. Parrish didn’t even blink.

“Whoa, dude,” Stiles put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Relax, I’m sure it’s just routine questions. Nothing to worry about.”

Parrish shook his head, gazing away from him. It was like he was contemplating telling them. He had to realize by now that Scott and Stiles weren’t ones to give up just because they didn’t have all the information. After a quick glance to make sure there was no one else around, Parrish leaned toward them. “The girl was at a party being held in the preserve--”

“You mean the sophomore party?” Stiles asked. To ease Scott’s confusion, he added, “Mason told me about it. I told him that something was bound to happen, but I thought it would just be that the officers on patrol would catch them.”

Parrish nodded along as Stiles talked. “We talked to some of her friends and they all confirmed that Liam asked her to meet him away from the party. When we checked her phone, we found that he was the last person she messaged. That means he was both the last person to talk to her and the last person to contact her on her phone.”

“Meaning?” Scott said, exasperation radiating off him. It was apparent that Scott already knew the answer but he needed to hear it from someone else or else he wouldn’t believe it.

“Meaning he’s more than just a person of interest,” Stiles answered, mirroring Parrish’s expression. “He’s their prime suspect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was originally a much longer chapter which ended up being cut into one angst chapter and one angst/fluff chapter (that chapter will be posted later this week).
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it :D


	4. when the water's pulling you in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of him wanted to go back inside the loft and rally everyone to help him find Lydia. But Liam was a prime suspect in a murder. He couldn’t decide which one needed more help.
> 
> Actually he could.
> 
> Because he took off for his Jeep without looking back, even when someone called his name.

A mass text, sent the second Scott and Stiles left the Sheriff’s Department, led to everyone congregating at Derek’s loft. They needed help. They needed the rest of the pack to tell them how they were going to exonerate Liam because both Scott and Stiles had no idea. Yet so far, no one had offered any ideas. It had been almost ten minutes since Scott had explained the situation.

“At least you’ll have someone to share the experience of being a murder suspect with,” Stiles said to Derek. His choice of remarks to break the silence was met with glares from everyone, except Kira who offered a half-smile. Stiles sunk back against the support beam.

Isaac opened his mouth, which Stiles assumed meant he was going to say something useful, but it was to yawn. It made him wonder why Isaac had come back to Beacon Hills, seeing as it wasn’t to offer any kind of help.

Kira seemed to sense Stiles’ growing frustration. “Maybe we can go out to the preserve tonight?”

There was no pause between her idea and Derek’s response. “And get caught by a dozen Sheriff’s Department officers.”

The loft was silent after that.

Another ten minutes passed before Malia turned away from the window to face them. “We should order pizza.”

“Liam’s in jail and you’re thinking about food?” Scott asked, removing his arm from behind Kira’s shoulders.

“I’m _thinking_ that we’re going to be here for a while since no one can come up with a decent plan to help Liam, and we should order pizza because Derek has nothing in his kitchen besides coffee and stale bread,” Malia shot back.

The tension in the room was palpable. Stiles knew he should move from the support beam and stand by Malia but he couldn’t seem to find the energy. It wasn’t even 7 pm and Stiles was exhausted. He was exhausted from worrying about Liam. He was exhausted from combing through Deaton’s bestiary for some supernatural creature to blame. He was exhausted from worrying about Lydia.

Lydia, who hadn’t answered the mass text or even shown up at Derek’s.

“We could always break-in,” Isaac’s attempt to break the tension wasn’t met with the same glares that Stiles’ had. The rest of the pack were actually considering it which made Stiles roll his eyes.

Then arguments began. Not about how they would break in, but about what pizzas they would order. They ended up ordering five different kinds. When the pizza arrived, the tension was broken, there was no more silence and everyone began to actually formulate ideas on what they would do to help their friend.

Stiles was still leaning against the support beam, eating a pizza slice, and trying to contribute to the planning when his phone began to ring. He shoved the rest of his slice in his mouth because he assumed it was just his father calling to ask where he was.

He almost choked when he saw it was Lydia.

No one seemed to notice when Stiles left the loft. He stood in the hallway and answered the call, a mixture of annoyance and worry evident as he spoke.

“Where are you?”

“Stiles.” Her broken tone rendered him still. He was sure even his heartbeat had slowed. “Find me.”

It took him a moment to process what she had said. He exuded anxiety. “Lydia, where are you?”

“I need you.”

They were the three words he had longed to hear her say to him since he had entered puberty, before he had truly known her but after he had known that he wanted nothing more in life than to have Lydia call him ‘ _hers_ ’.

But now it was different. Now he had Malia. Now Lydia wasn’t saying in the context he had always imagined.

Now he thought he was going to lose his mind as a result of her words.

He could hear his heart beat in his ears. After an inhale, in an effort to calm himself, he spoke. “Lydia, tell me where you are.”

Silence was the only reply. He pulled his phone away only to see that she had ended the call. There was a definite urge to hit the wall he was leaning against; the only thing that stopped him was the realization that if he did that, he would break more than a few bones and find himself being taken to the hospital against his will. He couldn’t do that. Not when she needed him.

Stiles made sure his keys were still in his jeans’ pocket. Part of him wanted to go back inside the loft and rally everyone to help him find Lydia. But Liam was a prime suspect in a murder. He couldn’t decide which one needed more help.

Actually he could.

Because he took off for his Jeep without looking back, even when someone called his name.

* * *

It took her a moment to acclimate to her surroundings. It was dark, it was cold and the only thing she could hear was the faint sound of birds chirping. Lydia let out a broken sob when she realized where she was.

She was in front of Allison’s headstone. Her knees ragged and cut. Her fingernails jammed with dirt and blood. She had been clawing at the ground that covered her best friend’s grave.

Lydia pushed herself backwards as quickly as she could. Her back slammed against another headstone. The pain caused another sob to fall from her lips. It was futile to try to stop the tears rolling down her cheeks but she still tried. She hated feeling like this. She hated being this girl again. There had been many hours spent with Morrell, with Allison and with herself after her experiences with Peter to become stronger. Lydia had thought she had moved past this – the fugue states, the hallucinations – when she had learnt what she truly was and stopped trying to fight it. But here she was, crying in a graveyard with no recollection of what happened after she started to follow Stiles and Scott in her car. She didn’t even know how long she had been in the fugue state.

The contents of her purse were strewn cross the ground beside her. Her hands immediately went to her phone, which had 3% battery life. There was no possible way to call someone without it dying. The only positive was that she could check the date. She let out a sigh of relief; it had only been a few hours, not 48. She also still had her clothes on so she thought she could consider that an additional positive.

Lydia strained to look for her keys. The fact that there were no actual lamp-posts or light of any kind in the graveyard made it difficult to find them. She had one option: she had to use the light from her phone, which would inevitably decrease what little battery was left.

She had exactly two minutes of searching before her phone died. In that time the only thing she had found was her purse and her keys weren’t in it. Lydia threw her phone in a moment of anger. It was then regretted as the sound of a crack filled the silence surrounding her. That would be difficult to explain to her mother.

Her back hit the headstone again, this time with less force. Maybe she could scream and bring the werewolves to her. She brought her legs up against her chest and stared at the words carved into the stone.

_Allison Argent. Friend, daughter, survivor.  
Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger leurs-même._

She remembered when they had first seen it. Scott had been worried that people would question why Chris had put the second sentence there. Chris told him that he didn’t care what other people thought; Allison was a warrior who wanted nothing more to protect people who needed them and that was how he wanted his daughter to be remembered.

A faint burst of light hit slowly appeared on Allison’s headstone. Lydia’s eyes widened but she couldn’t move. Her mind raced through all the possibilities of what could be happening. Then she heard his voice followed by footsteps running toward her location.

“Lydia? Lydia?” Stiles bellowed. The amount of worry in his voice made her heart ache slightly.

She stood up, her legs feeling numb, just as he skidded in an attempt to stop. He caught himself on the headstone she had just been leaning against.

Stiles cupped her cheeks, examining her, before he asked, “Are you okay?” His voice more gentle. His eyes staring into hers.

Lydia nodded her head once. His hands moved down to hold her arms. His eyes stayed on hers. They stood like this until she pulled away from him. “How did you know I was here?”

Confusion spread across his face. “You called and told me to find you.”

“No, I didn’t.”

He took his phone from his pocket and showed her his recent calls. Her name was the first on the list. “I’ve been driving around for last hour looking for you. Why couldn’t you just tell me where you were?”

“Stiles, I don’t remember calling you,” Lydia admitted as she continued to gaze at his phone, which she held in her hands. “The last thing I remember is leaving the school parking lot to follow you.”

Lydia slid down to the ground again, even though it was damp and her skirt was just barely covering the top half of her thighs. Stiles sat down opposite her. They stayed silent; Lydia couldn’t take her eyes off his call log and Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off her. It was like he was scared that if he did, she would disappear.

“A fugue state?” he asked softly after a few moments.

“Yeah.” Her eyes left the phone and met his. She blinked when she felt her eyes begin to well. She didn’t want to be _this_ girl again.

“Fugue states are usually the result of a traumatic event.” When she raised her eyebrows, he shrugged. “I read everything I could find about them after we found you in the woods.”

There was something about that made Lydia smile. It wasn’t new to her that Stiles had once been so infatuated with her that he did anything he could to show his love, but it still left her so pathetically speechless when she found out the extent of what he did for her.

“You have to tell me what’s wrong,” Stiles continued. “What happened today in the hallway and now this? Lydia, you can’t look me in the eye and tell me it’s nothing. You can’t pretend you don’t know what’s going on when it’s pretty _freaking_ apparent that you do.”

Her eyes moved back to his and narrowed. She wanted to tell him, she wanted nothing more than to tell him. But she knew she wasn’t the only one hiding something. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong when you tell me the real reason you want the pack to go to Mexico again.”

They had found themselves at an impasse. Stiles held her gaze for a few moments more before glancing away. Lydia knew then that he wasn’t going to speak about it.

Grabbing her purse, Lydia pushed herself off the ground. She wiped away the dirt that was stuck to her knees and thighs. With Stiles’ phone still in her hand, she began to search for her keys. Stiles helped once he understood what they were looking for.

Stiles was the one who found the keys wedged behind rocks a few headstones down from where they had been. As he handed her the keys and she handed him his phone, Stiles noticed her fingernails. He took his hands into his own and he examined them, utilizing the moonlight and the faint glow coming from the Jeep’s headlights. His gaze drifted to Allison’s grave. Lydia wrenched her hands from his and began walking toward the Jeep.

“Lydia.” It was stern. The voice Stiles reserved for moments when he knew it would have the most effect.

He was right behind her but she ignored him. The Jeep was parked by the sidewalk and her car was nowhere in sight. That left her three options: 1) walk around aimlessly in the dark to find it, and perhaps be accompanied by Stiles and his ‘naturally interrogatory’ face, 2) walk home in the dark and come back when it was light or 3) let Stiles drive her home, which meant not only would she be in close quarters with his ‘naturally interrogatory’ face, she would also be aware of the dozen questions that were most likely flying around in his head.

It was the only viable option. Even though it annoyed her. She chose number three and opened the passenger side door before Stiles could even offer to drive her home.

Stiles got in and continued to stare at her. “What _is_ it?”

“It’s a vehicular mode of transport,” Lydia responded immediately. Stiles rolled his eyes. “Many people make use of it when they need to get to destinations that are otherwise difficult to reach on foot. It usually drives when you apply pressure to the accelerator, which is, incidentally, the reason we’re stationary at the moment.”

He put the key in the ignition, letting the engine roar into life, but didn’t put his foot down on the pedal. “There’s blood and dirt under your fingernails and the ground above her grave is patchy, meaning you were probably clawing at it. You lost it in the middle of the hallway and then entered a fugue state – without finding an actual body, I might add – so you can’t blame it on a banshee premonition, which I can tell by the look in your eyes, was what you were thinking about doing. Lydia, I know there’s something wrong and it’s affecting you. Please just tell me what it is so that we can figure it out together like we always do.”

She held his gaze, knowing that he made a valid point, but he still hadn’t told her the truth. His omission had gotten on her nerves; it made her petty and stubborn. Even though she was terrified about everything she had experienced in the past 48 hours, Lydia couldn’t vocalize it. She couldn’t tell him the truth.

At least not until he told her.

“I stand by my original proposition: you want the truth and _so do I_.” Lydia was unyielding in her decision, even in the face of Stiles’ growing irritation. Normally it didn’t affect her but in that moment, she did feel her heartbeat quicken.

His eyes were dark as they stared into hers. His jaw unclenched and he turned away from her. “Fine.”

The rest of the drive was filled with silence and an undertone of tension. Lydia focused on trying to clean her fingernails with any fabric she could find in the Jeep; Stiles had handed her one of the shirts in his ‘just in case’ bag when they reached a stop sign without even looking at her.

Each time she wiped her fingernail, she had to fight back a wince. There was no doubt she’d have to wear gloves for the next week, or risk the predictable questions on what happened. Her hallucination in the hallway had led to mandatory counselling sessions with Morrell. Her mother had at first suggested a therapist outside of school but Lydia talked her out of that. At least Morrell _knew_ about the situation and wouldn’t act like it was due to a purely psychological cause or make her talk about events she didn’t want to.

When the Jeep finally parked, Lydia’s attention shifted from her nails to at what she thought was her house. They were actually parked in the Stilinski driveway. Stiles didn’t acknowledge the anger that was boiling under her skin, he just leaned over her and opened the passenger-side door. She slammed it shut, glaring at him. With a raised eyebrow directed at her, he opened the door again.

“Stiles,” Lydia uttered through clenched teeth.

“You’re not going home. Your mom’s not home, there’s no one to watch you. If you stay here, you have me and _the Sheriff_ to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is something bad about to happen?” Stiles asked, turning to face her.

“I don’t know.” Her words were soft, truthful and unexpected. The second Stiles’ hand came to rest on hers, she recoiled, which was _again_ unexpected. “Just drive me home. Please.”

Even when she had moved her attention back to her fingernails, Lydia could feel him watching her. They stayed on her for a few minutes before Stiles finally reversed. “Fine, then _I’m_ staying with _you_.”

Lydia almost agreed – in spite of her continued, inflexible annoyance at being treated like a fragile damsel in distress – until it dawned on her. “What about Malia?”

“I don’t think she’ll fit in your bed.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Stiles said with a smile. It made a smile appear on her own face, despite everything that had transpired over the course of a single day. Being with Stiles, in that moment, all memories of the murder, the hallucination, Liam being a suspect in the murder, the fugue state, _Isaac_... they all faded away.

They didn’t say anything as he drove to her house, but there wasn’t a tense silence that time to fill the void. Stiles turned the radio on and attempted to make Lydia smile again with his loud, off-key singing; it worked. By the time he had pulled up to her house, the two were laughing and acting as if the past 24 hours hadn’t happened. Like they were just two friends having fun.

It would have been futile to argue with him when he followed her to the door; even if she didn’t let him in, he would probably either find a way to get in or she’d wake up to him asleep on her doorstep, or his car.

With his ‘just in case’ bag in hand, Stiles trailed her up the stairs, trying not to take notice of Prada yapping and nipping at his ankles. They didn’t say anything until they reached her bedroom. Lydia told him to make himself at home before excusing herself to her bathroom. It was the first time she had actually looked at herself that night. Her braid looked nothing like it had that morning, there were loose strands of hair and a few leaves caught. Her makeup had streaked, one eye had mascara still and her lip-gloss had disappeared.

Lydia showered in an attempt to disregard everything, even though all she wanted to do was crawl into her bed. She could vaguely hear his one-sided conversation to the Sheriff through the door.

“Dad, I’m staying with Lydia tonight... It’s not like that... Something happened... I can’t talk about it... Just trust me... Yeah, I’ll be home tomorrow... You too.”

She stayed in the bathroom, waiting for him to call Malia but he didn’t. There was nothing on the other side of the door besides silence. By the time she had decided she could come out without interrupting anything, Stiles was sitting on her chair, reading through one of her text books with his brow furrowed. He didn’t even look up as she changed into her pyjamas under her towel. He just continued to read and absent-mindedly pat Prada, who had decided he wasn’t a threat and had settled on his lap.

“Are you going to sit there for the rest of the night?” she asked, pulling down her comforter.

He shrugged his shoulder. “I guess.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“I’ve slept in less comfortable chairs before.”

Lydia rolled her eyes and patted the empty space next to her. “Just come here.”

The hesitance he was feeling was evident. He put the book he was reading down before rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

“Stiles, it’s just a bed.”

His eyes stayed on hers, still questioning it, until he nodded. Stiles took off his shoes and walked over to the bed to lay down before stopping. He bent over and pulled something out from under her bed; an aluminium baseball bat.

“What’s this?” Stiles asked, holding it in his hand.

“A baseball bat,” Lydia replied matter-of-factly.

He put the baseball bat back in its original position and laid down. “Why do you have it?”

“Protection.”

Stiles turned to lay on his side, watching her stare at the ceiling. “You want protection but you won’t let anyone else help you?”

Lydia’s eyes drifted to him before she turned to face him as well. “I may be a distressed damsel at times, but I’m not _a damsel in distress_. I can take care of myself.”

“Or get yourself killed in the process.”

It was said under his breath but in the silence of the Martin household, it practically echoed. Lydia turned over to face her door and tried to fall asleep. It proved difficult when the feeling over his eyes burning a hole in the back of her skull grew immensely but she didn’t give into it. She wouldn’t let him get to her. There wasn’t enough information to act on yet; he and Scott tended to have an ‘act first, ask questions second’ reaction to most things. If this was something bad, she wanted to useful evidence that they could use that wouldn’t lead to them being kidnapped, assaulted or even killed.

Eventually the feeling of his gaze faded but Lydia still couldn’t sleep. Her eyes found the alarm clock on her bedside table. She let out a small groan at the time.

_3:18._

She gently left the bed and snuck across her room, in order not to wake Stiles. From the drool puddle slowly forming on his pillow, it didn’t seem like she had to be as cautious as she was. Lydia still continued to tread softly, even when in the hallway.

The house always seemed eerie at night. To some extent, it could be blamed by residual, irrational fear from the hallucinations Peter caused. Or it could be blamed by the size of it. Her parents were predominantly focused on work most of her childhood and adolescence, which left Lydia alone for long periods of time; in that time, Lydia had begun to fear the immensity, even if there was another person in the house.

Lydia stopped in her kitchen, wanting something to drink. Before she could reach for her glass, the headache returned. Her entire body felt the pain. It made her grip the counter-top. Her eyes began to water and she prayed that Stiles wouldn’t wake up and find her like this. If he found her like this, she would crumble and tell him everything. She would cry on his shoulder and beg for his help. Lydia didn’t want to do that, she wasn’t that person.

The pain began to fade. Slowly but it was still fading. Lydia was able to reach for a glass without dropping it in response. Her head was still pounding and it was clear that she would have to talk to Deaton further about this. If the headache came back during one of her classes or she started hallucinating again, it would be difficult to hide it from other people. She would end up in the hospital, stuck inside an MRI machine, or worse, be sent to Eichen House or another institution like it.

Lydia opened the refrigerator, taking out the filtered water and pouring it into her glass. She knew it wouldn’t work but if the water could act like a placebo, maybe her body would act like it was just a normal headache instead of... whatever it actually was.

As she lifted the glass to her mouth, she heard it. The words that sent more than a simple chill down her spine. The words that made it feel like blood was rushing out of her body. The words that made her heart stop beating.

They weren’t the same words that had been spoken to her in the school hallway; this was an entirely different person. It should have made her smile but instead, she dropped the glass. It barely registered with her that the glass shattered the second it hit the tile because she was practically catatonic. All because of two words. All because of...

“Hi Lydia.”

When she composed herself, Lydia turned on her heel. She was still begging that it was just her imagination. She was still begging that what she saw would not be the metaphorical nail in the coffin of her breaking psyche.

But there she stood. In the middle of Lydia’s dining room like it was just a normal occurrence.

There stood her best friend.

There stood Allison Argent.

“Oh god,” Lydia let out when she could structure coherent sentences again. “I really am the town whack-job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first Stydia-focused chapter of the series and the appearance of Allison, because I am still in denial. But is she a hallucination or something else? You'll soon find out.
> 
> If you have any questions, you can find me [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/ask).


	5. like some holy rite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia didn’t even respond when Allison began to speak. She may have wanted to see her best friend, but hearing her talk was another thing entirely. Hearing her talk cemented the Beacon Hills gospel that Lydia Martin was the town whack-job who deserved her own private wing at Eichen House. So much for being the genius with an IQ of 170 and a 5.0 GPA; Lydia Martin was the whack-job who heard the voices of the dead, hallucinated during school and entered fugue states, with or without her clothes on.

“No, you’re not,” Allison replied. She began walking towards Lydia but stopped when she noticed her step back. “Lydia, I don’t know how but I’m here.”

“I felt you die, Allison. I went to your funeral. There is no possible way you can be here.”

Lydia could feel the tears begin to well in her eyes but fought them back. Her hallucinations had never left her feeling anything besides misery and pain.

But using the memory of Allison?

That was something new.

That made her heart ache.

“I can prove it.” Allison began walking toward her again. She stood still when Lydia let out a hollow laugh. “What?”

Lydia put her hands to her face, rubbing it before running her fingers through her hair and letting out another hollow laugh. “You’re standing in the middle of my kitchen counter, Allison.”

Allison began to speak until she noticed a frantic Stiles, baseball bat in hand, running into the kitchen. His eyes were wide, as if ready to fight anything that might be in the house. She shot a look in Lydia’s direction; it was similar to the smirk she had worn when she had _convinced_ Lydia to go with Stiles to the Winter Formal.

“I heard a glass break.” Stiles’ head whipped around in every direction as he tried to understand the situation. His grip on the baseball bat never loosened. It was only when Lydia put her hand on his that he slowed down and glanced at her. “What happened?”

Allison looked at her expectantly. But as if Lydia was about to explain that her _dead_ best friend was standing in the middle of her kitchen counter at _3:30_ in the morning to an hysterical Stiles wielding a baseball bat. That would not end well.

His gaze went to the floor. To the broken glass and Lydia’s feet, which hadn’t inflicted any damage from the shattered glass fragments. Her ankle, however, had and there was more blood coming from the cut than she had expected. She waved it off. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Lydia--” Stiles began, dropping the baseball bat on the tiles below him and moving toward her.

Her hand went up to stop him. “You’ll step in it. Just go back to sleep, I'll clean this up.”

Stiles didn’t even contemplate it. He maneuvered his way around the edge of the counter to avoid the glass fragments before taking her hand. “After everything, you need sleep more than me, Lydia. Let’s just get a bandage and go to bed. We’ll worry about this in the morning.”

She looked over his shoulder to Allison, who was watching with curiosity. Lydia eventually nodded and let him lead her back through his path of avoidance. Allison was behind them with every step. It had become apparent that she was, without a doubt, a hallucination. Stiles hadn’t even acknowledged the presence of another figure in the room, which ruled out a ghost.

Though, three years ago, Lydia would have unequivocally said there was no such things as werewolves.

Now she knew better.

Now she actually questioned the possibility of ghosts.

They were laying down in her bed when she rolled over to look at him. Her logical mind told her not to ask the question but it was ignored as she stared at him. “Are ghosts real?”

Stiles looked like he was biting back a laugh as he shook his head. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

It was said with such conviction that Lydia almost believed it.

_Almost._

Lydia looked away from him, to the corner of her room where Allison leaned against the wall. She was so clear to Lydia that there was no doubt that she was there in the room. Whether she was a ghost or a hallucination was unclear.

“There’s no such thing as banshees,” Lydia countered as her eyes drifted back to Stiles.

They kept their gaze for a few moments before he rolled onto his back and stared at her ceiling. “I have to hope that, after everything we’ve been through, ghosts don’t exist.”

“Why?” It was barely above a whisper, her eyes watching him so intently.

“Because if they’re real,” Stiles replied as he turned his head to look at her again. “I don’t think they’d be here intentionally... or for a good reason. I think they’d be warnings that something bad was about to happen.”

“Like the deer?”

Stiles’ only response was a nod. Lydia turned away from him to face the door and shut her eyes, hoping that her hallucination would disappear when she woke up. Even in the silence and the dark, Lydia could still see her best friend standing in the corner. There was a doubt in the back of her mind that Allison would disappear completely. Something about the past few days made her realize her life wasn’t as easy as that.

* * *

The morning came suddenly. It seemed like Lydia had only just fallen asleep when her alarm clock’s piercing ring resonated through her room. She removed herself from Stiles’ warm arm, wondering when exactly in the night they had shifted and curled into one another. He was still sound asleep but rolled over onto the spot where she had just been. Lydia left him and went into her bathroom.

She didn’t look as horrible as she had expected. The bags under her eyes were minimal and could be covered with ease. Her hair had fallen back into its natural state; the fugue state leaving no lasting marks on its volume or quality.

After her shower, Lydia assumed Stiles would be awake. He wasn’t. He had stretched himself out on her bed like a cat. She decided to give him some more time to sleep, even though if she left him any longer, he would most likely be late. It had been a long night and at least one of them deserved a decent night’s sleep.

Lydia took her time in the kitchen, cleaning the broken glass and subsequent small blood puddle that had formed after the break. Her eyes kept drifting to the kitchen counter. She kept waiting for Allison to appear. Even if it made her heart hurt, even if it made her question her sanity, Lydia wanted to see her best friend again. It hadn’t occurred to her just how much she had missed her until Allison had been standing in front of her. Hallucination or not, Lydia wanted to see her.

It might have been _all_ she wanted.

When she came back into her room, Stiles was still asleep. Still snoring. It made her smile as she sat down on the edge of her bed and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Five more minutes.” His words were muffled by the pillow under his face.

“You’re going to be late,” Lydia said, rubbing her hand against his shoulder.

Stiles opened an eye to look at her. “Your bed’s too comfortable. I think I should stay in it all day.”

“But then you’d miss Coach’s class this morning and he’d make you handle the lacrosse team’s equipment for the rest of the year.”

He reluctantly nodded before sitting up. He rubbed the sleep from his eye. “When do you want to leave?”

Lydia stood up, moving away from the bed in order to hand him his bag. “I’m not going to school.”

“Then what are we doing?”

“ _I_ am going to see Deaton. _You_ are going to Econ.”

“Not without you,” Stiles replied as he took the bag from her hand. “Lydia, after everything that happened yesterday, how can I leave you?”

“By getting in your Jeep... and by trusting me.”

Her eyes found his, pleading with him to do what she had said. Even though it seemed like it was against every instinct in his body, Stiles eventually nodded his head. The instinct to stay was still apparent even when he was behind the wheel of the Jeep and she was waving goodbye to him from beside her own car at the cemetery. It was like he was dying to say something or do something to convince her that she shouldn’t be alone but all he could do was offer her a small smile before driving in the direction of Beacon Hills High.

Lydia felt bad for lying to him. It wasn’t exactly true that she was going to see Deaton. She would… _eventually_. But at that moment, she wanted to go somewhere else. She wanted to see someone else.

She wanted to see Derek, the one person who might be able to distract her from the calamity of the past two days. In the back of her mind, she knew it was unhealthy to disregard everything but the second she glimpsed at the passenger side of her car and saw Allison, all she wanted to do was disregard.

Lydia didn’t even respond when Allison began to speak. She may have wanted to see her best friend, but hearing her talk was another thing entirely. Hearing her talk cemented the Beacon Hills gospel that Lydia Martin was the town whack-job who deserved her own private wing at Eichen House. So much for being the genius with an IQ of 170 and a 5.0 GPA; Lydia Martin was the whack-job who heard the voices of the dead, hallucinated during school and entered fugue states, with or without her clothes on.

Allison followed her as she climbed the stairs to Derek’s loft. There was an expression of bewilderment on her face. “Why are you going to Derek’s?”

Lydia couldn’t help the way her gaze drifted slightly to Allison. It was proving difficult to ignore her best friend completely. Lydia had spent the month after Allison’s death calling her phone just to listen to her voicemail message and on rare occasions, she would watch the old videos of Allison and the rest of her pack that had their own special folder on her computer desktop, even though it made her heart ache even more.

“How long are you going to ignore me?” Allison asked as they stopped in front of Derek’s door. “Lydia, will you just say something?”

Every fiber of her being wanted to say something. Instead, Lydia slid the door open and walked inside. Derek was sitting on one of his chairs with a book in his hands. Despite the supernaturally enhanced hearing ability, he actually seemed surprised to see her walking towards him. As he opened his mouth to speak, Lydia straddled him, bringing a finger to his lips to quiet him before placing a kiss on his lips.

Behind her, Allison made a noise of repulsion. “I’m standing right here.”

Lydia’s hands found her way to his hair as he began to pull away from her. “Lydia, we can’t...”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Allison replied.

“Why not?” Lydia asked, her fingers running through his hair, a sultry glint in her eyes.

“Because I’m here,” a voice said as the body it belonged to descended the spiral staircase.

Lydia looked away from Derek’s face to Isaac. She removed herself from Derek and adjusted her skirt. “Isaac, has anyone ever told you that you’re the human equivalent of a cold shower?”

Isaac took a seat on the table positioned behind the chair Derek was now vacating. “Repeatedly.”

She rolled her eyes and moved toward Derek. “What is _he_ doing here?”

“ _He_ can hear you,” Isaac replied.

Lydia ignored him and kept looking at Derek, who was emitting a pungent smell of awkward and annoyed that she didn’t need a werewolf-enhanced olfaction to detect. He folded his arms across his chest. “ _Isaac_ is occupying one of the loft’s spare rooms for the moment.”

“The McCalls didn’t want him back?”

“Be nice,” Allison whispered.

She had moved to stand beside Lydia. From a quick aside glance, Lydia saw the endearing look Allison was casting toward Isaac. He didn’t even know she was there. He couldn’t see Allison’s heart-breaking response to his inability to see her. They had hardly had a chance to be with each other before she had lost her life. Now she was standing in the same room as him and Isaac couldn’t see her. Lydia couldn’t even imagine how that made Allison feel.

“Melissa didn’t want to bring Isaac into the house while Scott’s dad was still in town,” Derek replied, taking a seat on the couch. It was clear he wanted to rid himself of the situation that he was in. “So, until he leaves, Isaac is living with me.”

“Which means you two can’t do whatever _this_ is,” Isaac added, waving his finger between Derek and Lydia. “Not unless you want an audience.”

Derek and Lydia shot him a similar glare, which only made him smirk. Lydia sighed before running her hand down her face. If she couldn’t do what she had initially planned to do, maybe she could talk to him. Derek had spent more time than most of the pack delving into research about the supernatural. He might not have had the same level of knowledge that Deaton did but he could offer her some answer that wouldn’t make her skin crawl. Talia Hale had been an all-knowing Alpha, maybe her son had inherited that as well.

It wasn’t exactly a conversation she wanted to have with Isaac in the room but unless she felt like dragging Derek out of the building itself, Isaac would have to be privy to their conversation and the knowledge that either Lydia Martin may in fact be a lunatic or that there was something new and supernatural in Beacon Hills.

“Are ghosts real?” Lydia asked, breaking the silence of the loft.

Isaac let out a snort before quieting down in response to the death glare Derek shot his way. Derek turned his head to look at her, trying to determine whether it was a real question. “I don’t know,” he let out after a moment. “It’s possible but I don’t know many people who have witnessed one. Why?”

Lydia’s gaze shifted between Derek and Isaac before settling on the floor beneath her. She hadn’t told Stiles, who had practically pleaded with her to, yet she was about to tell Isaac and Derek? Derek, she understood because he had been with her more than the rest of the pack had over the past few months, but why trust Isaac with the knowledge?

For the girl standing beside her.

For Allison, Lydia would trust Isaac, just as she had trusted him with the awareness of her arrangement with Derek. It hurt that both Derek and Isaac had become more trustworthy candidates for the truth she was hiding from the rest of the world instead of Scott and Stiles.

But Scott and Stiles had focused so much on moving on and being with their girlfriends that they had practically left Lydia to fend for herself, to deal with the emotional and physical pain of losing her best friend alone. They hadn’t been around when she needed them the most and the few times when they had were overshadowed by their desire for her help with whatever supernatural situation they were in or the status of their relationships.

Stiles’ face still invaded her mind though, and his words “ _Please just tell me what it is so that we can figure it out together like we always do_ ” echoed.

She pushed it aside and took a deep breath. “Yesterday, I hallucinated in the hallway.”

“Not new information. Scott told us last night,” Isaac informed her as he moved to sit next to Derek on the couch.

Lydia shot him a look of annoyance before continuing. “It was the first time the hallucinations occurred... but not the first time the feeling had. The day before I experienced this...” Lydia searched for the right words. “This _heart-stopping_ fear. It _paralyzed_ me. I have never felt anything like it before. Then there's this headache that makes me feel like my head might... like my head might explode. The pain radiates throughout my entire body and I can’t stop it. It’s not a banshee prediction, because I haven’t a body yet. I did enter a fugue state and walk to the cemetery but I didn’t find a _fresh_ body.”

Derek leaned forward with concern etched on his face while he took in what she was saying. “Okay, so what are you thinking?”

Lydia took another deep breath as she stared at the two men in front of her. “I think there’s something in Beacon Hills... and I’m connected to it.”

* * *

They had been with Deaton for the past two hours. Derek had thrown Lydia over his shoulder in a display of cavemen-like behaviour after she refused to go to the Animal Clinic _with_ him and Isaac. Both Isaac and Derek had ignored the graphic threats of physical violence against them she promised if Derek didn’t put her down. They forced her to sit between them in on the seat of Derek’s truck where there was no possible way she could escape. Allison disappeared before they had entered the truck but was standing by the entrance to the clinic when they arrived with no idea how she managed to do it. She hadn’t been able to make it past the counter, like there was an invisible force keeping her in the waiting room. After a promise to try and be there when Lydia exited, Allison stood at the counter and did exactly what the room was designed for; she waited.

Lydia had told Deaton everything that happened and he no longer had any disbelief on the subject. He didn’t try to explain the feelings away on her grief over losing Allison; from the way his eye had drifted to the counter after their arrival, Lydia had a small suspicion that he knew Allison was there, or could at least feel her presence.

There had been ideas thrown out over how to gain more information of whatever the _something_ was. Isaac’s proposition of an ice bath was rejected; at least by Lydia, the other two men said it was a worst case scenario. It had taken numerous bad ideas and almost sixty minutes of research to make them doubt that Deaton’s archives had the information.

Lydia and Isaac were sitting next to each other on the counter-top against the brick wall, each with their own archive in their lap. Every so often one of them would nudge the other in the ribs because _they_ were invading their personal space and it would subsequently result in both of them jabbing each other in the side. Each time that happened either Derek or Deaton would look at them and the only excuse Lydia and Isaac could give was “he started it/she started it”.

“I think I found something,” Deaton said, emerging from his back room.

The other three left their seating places and converged at the exam table. Deaton put the large volume down on the surface. The open pages were written in Archaic Latin. Derek and Isaac turned to Lydia expectantly only to have their attention drawn back to Deaton, the only other person in Beacon Hills who could fluently and _precisely_ interpret the language. Before he could say anything, Lydia’s eyes were drawn to one of the words on the page. One of the words that sent a chill down her spine.

“Necromancy,” she whispered.

Derek and Isaac’s eyes widened while Deaton simply nodded his head. “Yes. From everything you’ve told me, I believe we may be dealing with someone who is attempting to raise the dead. Whoever we’re dealing with is not looking simply to raise a loved one but is attempting to raise substantial number of deceased persons. For what purpose is another question entirely but it’s safe to assume that whatever the reason, the end result will be for a reign of terror to fall and the subsequent annihilation of living souls.”

A silence fell in the room. Each one of them absorbing the information that had been given to them. They shared quick looks between each other. Each of them began to feel a similar fear. Goosebumps arose on their skin, breathing became somewhat shallower and it was only the sound of Isaac’s voice that brought them back into focus.

“Remember when all we had to worry about was revenge-driven hunters and a giant lizard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are you guys liking it so far? I hope you guys are still enjoying it.
> 
> If you have an questions, you can find me [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com).


	6. don't have a choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Stiles and Isaac were becoming defensive which was the last thing that they needed to happen while they were deserted in the desert with no ability to call anyone or find a map or have their Alpha sort out the growing tension between Stiles and Isaac. The growing tension that seemed like it was about to erupt, leaving a trail of destruction and blood; that wouldn’t be good for multiple reasons but the growing thought in Lydia’s mind as she began to move toward Stiles to tell him to calm down was that there were no signs of a hospital within miles and their 'just in case' bags were sufficiently low on supplies. A physical altercation between a beta werewolf and a somewhat athletic Stiles would require a visit to the hospital... or possibly the morgue.

“We’re lost.”

Two words which Lydia had repeated almost ten times in the past 30 minutes since they had been parked. Stiles wouldn’t admit it, even though she, Isaac and Kira unanimously agreed that they were in fact _lost_ and had been since Stiles had decided to try the so-called ‘short cut’ given to him by the man at the last gas station they had stopped at. Even Malia, who had a habit of agreeing with Stiles’ insane theories and thoughts, had said they were lost. That was before she had run off into the darkness while following Scott’s scent. She had been gone before Isaac could get out of the Jeep to follow or Stiles could object.

Stiles continued to pace along the rock formation he had climbed, a flashlight in one hand and a grimace on his lips. “We are not lost.”

“Then where are we?” Lydia asked, looking up at him with her arms folded. She was currently leaning against the Jeep while Isaac and Kira attempted to call Scott and Malia from the front seats.

“We’re... _here_ ,” Stiles let out exasperatedly as he admitted defeat and began to climb down the rocks again.

Isaac’s head popped out the open driver’s side window with a small smirk. “What would we do without those keen detective skills?”

“Shut up,” Stiles retorted, walking past him to stand beside Lydia. He pointed his index finger at Isaac. “Why did we have to bring him?”

“Because you wouldn’t let me stay in Beacon Hills,” she replied.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t just _me_. Deaton wanted to test if the Necromancer’s bond with you could stretch.”

Derek, Deaton and Isaac had been undisputed in their desire to tell the rest of the pack about the Necromancer despite Lydia’s objections. She knew the minute it was out in the open, the pack would walk on eggshells when it came to her. That was the last thing she wanted.

In the back of her mind though, she knew the real reason she didn’t want to tell the pack was Stiles.

The minute the words had left Deaton’s mouth, Stiles’ eyes had found hers. She tried to look away but it was futile. The minute their eyes met, everything else faded away and all she could see was the hurt and fearful look in his eyes. Lydia hadn’t told him the truth, but she had told Deaton, Derek and Isaac.

Even when he had begged her to.

Even when he had spent almost every waking minute worrying about her.

Lydia had trusted other people over _him_.

They barely spoke to each other that night even though they had been holding each other so tightly in her bed that same morning. The only words they spoke were dripping in sarcasm; Lydia when she asked Stiles why he wanted to go to Mexico, and Stiles when he told her that she had to go with the rest of the pack to Mexico.

Deaton and Derek had been the first to agree with Stiles that they should go to Mexico. Their reasoning was split between two defining motives: exploring the hold the Necromancer had on Lydia and getting Stiles to shut up about why it was a good idea to go on vacation.

Malia had been the one to finally tell the truth behind the trip. It was in the middle of an awkward tension brought about by an argument between Stiles, Lydia and Isaac. She had thrown her hands in the air and stated that it was because there was someone in Mexico who said they knew Desert Wolf.

After that, the rest of the pack – sans Lydia and Isaac – had agreed to the plan. Lydia’s mind had raced with all the possibilities of what could be facing them in Mexico.

 _Someone_ knew the mysterious Desert Wolf.

 _Someone_ could easily be Kate Argent or Peter Hale.

Or _someone_ being paid by the two to lure the pack down and try to kill them.

Isaac either shared this thought, having been told of everything he had missed while in France, or was indifferent to the notion of being crammed into Stiles’ Jeep and sleeping in a crappy motel room. Given their last encounter at a motel as a group, Lydia couldn’t blame him if that was his reason.

It was only after Derek pulled them both aside while the pack was leaving that they both agreed to go.

At least Lydia had a few people to blame if she died of pneumonia against Stiles’ Jeep.

“Anyway,” Stiles said, breaking the silence that had settled between the four. “You’re the one who said to ask the guy at the gas station for a short cut.”

 _That_ offended Lydia and she didn’t even try to hide it, as evidenced by the scoff that fell from her lips. “I _said_ to ask the man at the gas station for a _map_ because despite my very detailed list of reasons as to why you should, you have never bothered to install a GPS in your Jeep. You don’t even have a map.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, taking out his phone out of his pocket and showing her the home screen. “I have an app.”

“Which is rendered useless when you can’t get a signal.”

“Lydia, I’m not going to harm my Jeep just so that we don’t get--”

“Eaten by coyotes after we freeze to death on a dusty, deserted back road in Mexico?” Lydia cut in.

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” Stiles replied, shining his flashlight into the darkness to try to see _anything_. “We won’t freeze to death... Eaten by coyotes, _maybe_.”

“Is that supposed to be a pep talk?” Isaac asked, his head resting on the door as he sat in the front seat.

“Yes... No... _I don’t know_.” Stiles’ flustered expression when he turned back to face the Jeep and his friends made Isaac chuckle. Stiles pointed his finger accusatorily at him. “I would like to see you do better. I mean what do you besides stand there and be perpetually pessimistic?”

“I can do a lot more than get my ass handed to me while wielding a baseball bat.”

Both Stiles and Isaac were becoming defensive which was the _last_ thing that they needed to happen while they were deserted in the desert with no ability to call anyone or find a map _or_ have their Alpha sort out the growing tension between Stiles and Isaac. The growing tension that seemed like it was about to erupt, leaving a trail of destruction and blood; that wouldn’t be good for multiple reasons but the growing thought in Lydia’s mind as she began to move toward Stiles to tell him to calm down was that there were no signs of a hospital within miles and their 'just in case' bags were sufficiently low on supplies. A physical altercation between a beta werewolf and a somewhat athletic Stiles would require a visit to the hospital... or possibly the morgue.

Just as Lydia opened her mouth to try and defuse the situation, the passenger side door opened and Kira emerged.

“Can anyone get any reception?” she asked as she walked around the Jeep to where Stiles and Lydia were standing with her hand in the air, trying desperately to make one bar appear on her phone.

The other three checked their phones before shaking their heads. Isaac continued to lean out the window of the Jeep. He began to say something to Lydia before noticing something in the distance. Stiles’ eyes followed and he smiled.

“Malia and Scott made friends who can help us navigate our way back.” It was said with such conviction and belief that relief almost flooded through Lydia’s body.

 _Almost_ being the key word.

All thoughts of relief and safety left her when the large SUV pulled to a stop beside them. The two men who exited the vehicle were both physically terrifying; muscles barely confined in their black shirts, bald heads reflecting the moonlight above them, the same scowl on their lips. Even without the assault rifles in their hands, the two men would have been threatening.

“The friends are holding guns, Stiles,” Isaac said, attempting to exit the Jeep without the two men noticing.

Stiles’ eyes widened and he stepped back, which led to him standing in front of Lydia. “I can see that, thank you.”

Isaac had one foot out of the Jeep when a rifle was pointed in his direction. Lydia let out a soft, unpredicted “ _no_ ”. Her feet tried to move her forward in an attempt to discuss the current issue with the men – and hopefully get them to lower their weapons – but she couldn’t move without the risk of losing her arm. One of Stiles’ hands had reached back to grip her wrist with a strength that could surpass a werewolf’s. It was such a small shake of his head that Lydia almost hadn’t noticed but he knew exactly what she wanted to do and he wasn’t going to let her.

“Get in,” one of the men said, nodding his head toward the SUV.

This time Stiles’ shake of the head was noticeable. “We’re okay here. We actually planned to sleep under the stars; it’s a little cliché and romantic but so are double dates. Thank you for your generosity though.”

Before Stiles had finished speaking, he was looking down the barrel of the rifle that had previously been pointed at Isaac. Lydia’s free hand moved to grip Stiles’ hand on her. Her eyes found Kira, who had moved back against the Jeep, silently and futilely trying to tell Isaac they needed to fight.

Though a Kitsune without her katana or in-depth knowledge of the skills she possessed and a beta werewolf who hadn’t fought in months against two brawny men with large rifles didn’t seem like a fair or _winnable_ fight.

“Get in,” the man repeated. His eyes drifted to Lydia. “Or we put a bullet in the redhead’s skull.”

Stiles instinctively leapt toward the man with a vehement expression at the threat. He was met with the butt of the rifle hitting him square in the forehead.

With that, Stiles was knocked out and Lydia fell to her knees in an attempt to catch his unconscious body while Kira and Isaac tried to attack the two men. They obviously didn’t share Lydia’s pessimistic – and _realistic_ – expectation of how the fight would end.

A warning shot was fired by Kira’s feet. She and Isaac both stopped where they were. Isaac’s hand reaching for her elbow to pull her towards him.

The vocal man knelt down in front of Lydia. “Get in the car, _Miss Martin_.”

Her eyes met his. The blood-curdling abyss that she was staring into made her heart skip a beat. She was just thankful that her eyes weren’t watering. At least without the appearance of tears, Lydia could attempt to hold her steely resolve, even if she was breaking down on the inside.

With a quick glance back at Kira and Isaac, Lydia nodded her head and stood up. Isaac tried to pick Stiles up but was pushed away by the mute man, who lifted Stiles’ unconscious body over his shoulder before throwing him in the rear cargo area of the SUV. The other three sat in the back seat without a word as the men watched them.

There was no going back.

There was no way out.

That was all they knew as they sat side by side, staring toward the windshield.

Isaac’s claws were digging into the side of his thigh, they were in deep enough to draw blood. When she saw, Lydia moved a hand to cover his. Their eyes met; he was practically pleading with her to let him do something. They both knew he couldn't do anything, at least not fast enough to have any real effect. One of them would be shot before his hand reached the front.

His claws retracted. Her hand went back to intertwining with the other, which resulted in her wringing her hands nervously in her lap.

Questions ran through her brain while they drove: where was Scott? Where was Malia? Had they been caught by the same people or were Isaac, Kira, Stiles and Lydia about to become a cautionary tale that was told at the beginning of each school year about how lying to your parents and running off to Mexico only had negative consequences?

The back of her throat was began to itch; it felt like something wanted to escape it.

And when the realization of what that thing was that wanted to escape hit her, Lydia could practically feel the blood rush from her body.

She wanted to wail.

She wanted to heed an impending death.

Whose death was uncertain to her.

But there it was, in the back of her throat and the back of her mind; someone was going to die.

* * *

Five hours earlier, they had been squished together in Stiles’ Jeep and forced to listen to his off-key singing. Lydia was between Kira and Isaac, who both stared absently out the window. Scott was in front of the Jeep; he had said he wanted some time alone to think despite Kira insisting to go with him. Nobody had said anything for the past hour, except for when Malia asked if they could stop for snacks and Lydia had demanded that Stiles ask for directions at the gas station.

With each minute that passed and each mile they drove, Lydia felt herself becoming stronger.

No one had mentioned it – though it had been obvious that Malia wanted to say something judging by the expression on her face as she watched Lydia in Derek’s loft – but Lydia was beginning to lose her color. It was only a slight change, but when the people closest are either supernaturally-enhanced beings or have been obsessed with everything about you since third grade, a slight change is never unnoticed.

The natural rosiness of Lydia’s cheeks was a pale shadow of itself. The bags under her eyes had become somewhat darker than they had been that morning. She couldn’t focus her attention for longer than a few minutes, though she used all her strength to structure retorts to whatever Stiles said to her.

He was petty that she hadn’t told him the truth when they were in the graveyard and she was petty that _he_ hadn’t told her the truth when they were in the graveyard.

The only thing that had kept Lydia in Derek’s loft, after the truth had been told about what she was going through and why Stiles and Malia wanted to go to Mexico, was Allison.

She had been standing near the spiral staircase, observing the situation in front of her and adding her opinion to the multiple arguments that transpired during that pack meeting. Her opinions were only heard by Lydia, however. Even when she walked over to Scott and stared at him forlornly, Lydia was the only person who knew. Lydia was the only person who was privy to the knowledge that Allison was in the middle of the room and despite the words forming in her mouth, no sound escaped her lips.

She couldn’t share the knowledge of Allison. If it turned out that Allison was nothing but a mere hallucination being given to her _by_ the Necromancer or simply a result of the affect the Necromancer had on her, the pack’s hopes of her return would be destroyed just as soon as they had been given.

Isaac and Scott still carried their love of Allison with them each day, Lydia couldn’t give them the assurance that she could return if it was simply a farce to prolong Lydia’s mental breakdown.

Then there was Stiles, who had thrown himself into a relationship and ignored what had happened the previous year because of the guilt that weighed on his shoulders. It was never shown, but it was there. Lydia could sense it. It was in the subtle glimpses at Scott or Chris, the way he tried to avoid the hallway that had once housed Allison’s locker, the way his eyes watched Lydia at times. He would stare at her like he was trying to vocalize all his guilt and sympathy without ever saying the words that would sound hollow coming from anyone else.

That night she had slept at the loft. It was only a sleep arrangement, because the pack agreed that leaving her alone in her house wasn’t an option. But it had proven difficult to fall asleep when she had her two guard dogs protecting her. Derek lay beside her, attempting to stay on watch, while Isaac had pulled up a chair beside the bed. It wasn’t as if the Necromancer was going to break through the loft’s windows, throw Lydia over his shoulder and hide her in his lair while he maniacally laughed and twirled his handle-bar moustache, but try telling that to two paranoid werewolves.

It was only when she was sure that they were both asleep that Lydia slipped away from the bed and walked onto the balcony. Under the moonlight and the stars, there was an air of normality. She could breathe easily without having the impending doom hovering over her head like a dark storm cloud.

The sound of lightning sparks coming from her cloud echoed in her ears when she saw her out of the corner of her eye.

Allison was leaning against the half wall railing, staring up at the sky. The normality of her expression was unnerving. Lydia willed herself to walk back inside but her feet wouldn’t move.

As much as Lydia missed her best friend, she couldn’t continue to interact with the memory of her best friend, which may or may not have been a fabrication cause by the latest big bad in Beacon Hills.

Lydia’s mouth didn’t seem to share that idea.

“Why are you here, Allison?” Lydia’s voice was soft and cracked as she spoke.

Allison continued to stare up at the stars with unwavering fascination. “I don’t know.”

With a roll of her eyes, Lydia turned to face her friend. “That’s not a good enough response.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Brutal honesty was not something Lydia expected – or _wanted_ – from her halluci-ghost best friend. Actually she wanted anything other than the continuation of the notion that Lydia was losing her mind.

“But I am _here_ , Lydia,” Allison continued, turning her head to look at the strawberry-blonde.

“Banshees aren’t mediums. We can’t see the dead or communicate with them,” Lydia replied as she walked across the balcony to lean against the wall. Her eyes went back to Allison as she folded her arms across her chest. “Believe me... _I’ve tried_.”

“There’s a necromancer in Beacon Hills.”

“Who’s obviously not doing a very good job. He’s not raising the dead, he’s raising the... _spirit_.”

The word made Lydia cringe even though she had used the synonymous terms multiple times in the past 24 hours. She attempted to hide the cringe but Allison noticed regardless; her eyebrows rose slightly and she took a deep breath through her nose but she didn’t say anything, she just watched as her best friend attempted to navigate through the murkiness that littered her mind.

It felt awkward to stand against the wall and watch her friend so Lydia began to slowly pace across the balcony. Her fingers admired the fresh window panes that had needed to be added after Kate Argent and her band of merry Berserkers had broken through the previous ones. They looked practically the same as the old ones; it was like Derek had no desire to upgrade his living situation. The burned-down Hale House, the railway car and now the decrepit loft in the building that he owned; he certainly liked being in run-down places. With all the money she knew the Hales _and_ Derek had hidden away, it was strange that Derek wouldn’t even furnish his loft. _You never know when you have to run_ , was the only answer he had ever given her on the subject.

As her fingers trailed across the window panes, her gaze trailed into the loft where Derek and Isaac were still sleeping peacefully. They were blissfully unaware of what was happening a few feet away.

“Or you’re a distraction,” Lydia whispered, her fingers hesitating and her legs stopping where they were but never turning her body so that she could face the brunette whose eyes felt like they were burning a hole in Lydia’s head.

“A distraction?”

“A gambit, technically,” Lydia corrected both herself and Allison. She turned herself, with a deep breath. “When a sacrifice is used to gain an early advantage of space and time in the beginning of the game.”

“The Necromancer is using me as a pawn to gain advantage to do what exactly?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out, we always do.”

“Lydia, if I’m not a gambit, if I’m real, what are you going to do?”

If she was real, Lydia didn’t know what she would do; scream, cry, happily jump up and down, they all seemed like relatively sane reactions to her best friend being resurrected. But Stiles’ voice echoed in her head, an annoying repeating occurrence which she wished would go away.

“ _I don’t think they’d be here intentionally... or for a good reason. I think they’d be warnings that something bad was about to happen_ ”.

While he had been answering her question in relation to ghosts, she knew it could apply to the dead being resurrected. There was hardly an abundance of stories in which the dead rising ever resulted in sunshine, happiness and a comic-sans written ‘ _And they all lived happily ever after_ ’ end card. In fact there was a whole genre of media that focused on the aftermath of the dead rising and it was the polar opposite of sunshine and happiness.

Before she could reply, there was a knock on the window. It’s unexpectedness made Lydia jump. Her attention was drawn away from the halluci-ghost-whatever of her best friend to the pissed off werewolf standing inside the loft. Derek had stopped being frightening to her even before they had begun their trysts but there was something about the way he looked at her that sent a chill down her spine. It wasn’t the anger at her not being in the bed – and in the presence of safety – when he woke up but what was behind the anger; _the worry_.

Derek’s worry frightened her.

As did Deaton’s.

Despite everything, they were two people who were hardly ever rattled. They both were renowned to her as having clear heads, so when they were worried about something, it wasn’t exactly a sign that should be ignored.

When Lydia walked back inside the loft, the lack of Allison reverberated in the silence.

Lydia’s eyes searched the moon-lit loft for any trace of the hunter but she wasn’t there and she wasn’t on the balcony. The only people in the loft were corporeal and that didn’t make Lydia feel any better.

* * *

The first thing Stiles noticed when his eyes fluttered open was the immense darkness that surrounded him.

Then it became apparent to him that his hands were bound above his head in handcuffs. Not padded handcuffs like Brunski had so graciously locked him and Lydia up with but cold, steel ones which were attached by chain to the wall behind him.

From his seated position, Stiles kicked his feet out in an attempt to discern both the square-footage of the space he found himself in and if he was alone.

He was.

The rattling of the chain against the steel wall seemed to alert whoever was in the room next to him.

“Stiles?” the hushed voice carried so much affection and worry through the wall. “Stiles, is that you? Are you okay?”

Lydia’s voice calmed him somewhat, but it was hard _not_ to panic after waking up in a steel room chained to the wall after being knocked unconscious by an assault rifle.

His head hurt and his breathing was becoming erratic but he still replied with – “I’m okay” – because he didn’t want to worry her any more than she probably already was.

It sounded like there was a sigh of relief on her side of the wall followed by her head softly resting against the steel barrier. Stiles did the same. At least when Brunski had held them captive Stiles had been able to see Lydia; it was barely anything but he had been able to know that she was still fine, relatively speaking. But with the barrier between them, Stiles didn't know anything. If she was hurt, he had no clue. Anger began to emerge in him at the thought.

“Next time I tell you something bad is going to happen, listen to me,” Lydia pronounced, her voice louder and more confident despite the unsteadiness he detected behind it.

“I thought you said you weren’t a psychic,” Stiles replied in the same tone as her, keeping his anger under control and to himself.

Maybe if they both bickered like they usually did, their current location and the situation they found themselves in wouldn’t cloud their thoughts any more than it had to.

“I’m not a psychic but I am smarter than you.”

He let out a laugh which was unanticipated to both of them. She did the same.

Then the initial plan to bicker and forget their troubles soon vanished.

Once their laughter had disappeared completely and silence filled the empty space, Stiles turned his head to place his ear against the wall. Somehow through the blockade, he could hear her breathing. He could hear her desperate and unsuccessful attempts to keep it steady, and the breaths rang through his ears.

“It’s going to be okay.”

He didn’t believe his own words but he hoped that she would.

“They took Kira and Isaac somewhere else,” Lydia’s trembling voice cut him. “I don’t know if they have Scott or Malia, but they have Isaac and Kira and we’re stuck here.”

Stiles took a deep breath before plastering a small smile on his face, even though he knew Lydia couldn’t see him. “It’s going to be okay.”

Lydia scoffed. It was a watery sound, as if she was on the verge of crying. But she wouldn’t. He knew her better than that. She wouldn’t break down and cry because she was locked up. She wouldn’t give _them_ the satisfaction.

“There’s a person raising the dead in Beacon Hills and we’re not there to stop it. We’re not there because you and Malia couldn’t wait to find out who the Desert Wolf is.” Her words were acidic yet Stiles couldn’t bite back. His mouth and his mind wouldn't let him. “Erica died. Boyd died. Allison died. Our pack was put on a dead pool. You were almost killed. Kate almost succeeded in her plan to have the pack kill Scott. Yet despite all of this, you and Malia asked us to walk into danger _yet again_. You had no plan, Stiles. You had no map. You were relying on your keen intuition to guide us. So it’s no surprise that we are in this situation _again_. And it is _not_ going to be okay.”

A million replies and retorts ran through his mind but only one word fell from his lips.

“ _Why_?”

“Because someone's about to die.”

Lydia’s brutally honest reply somehow seemed to take the oxygen from his lungs and create a pounding within his skull simultaneously.

Silence filled the void between them.

Stiles turned his head to stare at the emptiness in front of him. His breathing returning to normal slowly. He couldn't deny the truth behind her words but he had promised Malia that he would help her find her mother. More than that, his curiosity on the subject of Desert Wolf was resolute. No one knew who she was and yet everyone had information on her; she was an enigma that affected people within close proximity to him and Beacon Hills. There was more to her than simply being Malia’s mother and that was what he wanted answers to.

Lydia closed her eyes, thinking back over the events after leaving the SUV. The blindfold had rendered her unable to detect anything; she didn’t have supernaturally-enhanced senses that would let her have peace of mind, she just had an overwhelming feeling of death.

“How long have we been here?” Stiles asked, ignoring everything that had just been said for the time being and focusing on the problem that needed to be addressed.

“Two hours, maybe close to three.”

Stiles nodded to himself before attempting to free himself from his handcuffs. It had happened when he and Lydia had been held captive by Brunski, though padded restraints and steel restraints were two separate things. If he could channel the adrenaline and anger that he had felt when Brunski was injecting a needle into Lydia’s neck, he could free himself like he had at that moment. It had only been one hand but one free hand was all that he needed.

The rattling of chains was familiar to Lydia. She had tried it for the first twenty minutes she had been sitting in there.

“The only way you’re getting out is if you break your wrists,” Lydia stated through the wall. “And if you break your wrists, you won’t be able to do anything.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Stiles’ annoyance was beginning to show as he continued to try and break himself free.

“Sit here and wait to be buried in shallow graves.”

Stiles stopped his attempts and sighed, his head resting against the steel wall. “I meant it when I said it was going to be okay.”

Lydia shook her head softly. “And I meant it when it wasn’t going to be.”

It almost felt as though they were resting their heads against one another, leaning on each other for support like they had done numerous times before. Lydia’s anger towards Stiles was pushed to the back of her mind. All she could think of was when they sat on the bus to the lacrosse meet. Despite the impending danger that they faced, it had been a moment in time when she, Allison, Stiles and Scott had a chance to be somewhat normal. They had spoken about the Alpha pack and the human sacrifices but those hadn’t been the only topics that charged their conversations. They had talked about the PSATs, about college and then about video games in an attempt to rouse Scott from his melancholy over Derek’s supposed death.

It had been _normal_. And Lydia loved every second of it.

That was when it hit her.

“The sophomore,” Lydia said softly. It was a ‘ _eureka!_ ’ moment in which she wanted to stand up and clap her hands together or at the very least, hit herself for being so blind.

“What?” Even with the wall between them, Lydia could see Stiles’ expression of utter confusion clearly.

“Some ancient cultures sacrificed people in preparation for battle,” Lydia echoed her own words from their conversation on the bus.

“So we’re about to face a zombie war?” It wasn’t uttered with malice or condescension but with real questioning. Stiles may not have actually believed that there would be a zombie battle, where their opponents would be hungry for human flesh, but he could believe a very real battle in which they were faced with the dead risen and following the orders of a malevolent _Pied-Piper_.

“Where was the body found?”

“On top of the Nemeton.”

Lydia bit her lip, choosing her words carefully before she even opened her mouth. “Human sacrificing was also a way to pacify deities, Stiles. It was how some ancient cultures ensured good fortune. By sacrificing the sophomore atop the Nemeton, the Necromancer could trying to appease _something_ in order to gain strength like Jennifer did, whether it’s from the Nemeton itself or from a deity who specializes in necromancy.”

Stiles’ head thumped against the wall. “Which is why it was a three-fold death; strangled, drowned and bludgeoned.”

“You didn’t think about that before?” Lydia questioned through gritted teeth, her hands rattling the handcuffs they were bound with in an attempt to break free. It had happened before in Beacon Hills, how had it not been his first thought? He hadn’t even told them about the cause of death; he had simply said injuries that led to her death but that couldn’t have been linked to Liam. They hadn’t questioned it either.

“I did but... Jennifer didn’t exactly pause between the types of sacrifices. It's almost been a week since the girl was found. If another two bodies had been found in the exact same condition, then I would have thought about it. But between Liam’s status of murder suspect, the appearance of the Necromancer, you being connected to said Necromancer and being locked up _here_ , I haven’t really had time to run through Beacon Hills’ greatest hits,” he replied, exasperated as he continued tugging on the handcuffs.

She sighed and closed her eyes. Her arms felt heavy above her but she overlooked it. “Stiles, while we’re sitting in here--”

“There could be another sacrifice and the Necromancer could be getting stronger, I’m aware.”

The door in Lydia’s room burst open. Light flooded into the room, which practically blinded her given the past three hours of staring into darkness. She could only see the two figures who partially blocked the light. They were blurry, faceless figures who showed no kindness or weakness as they unlocked her handcuffs and pulled her up from the ground.

The itch at the back of her throat was stronger now yet it wasn’t a wail that tore from her lips but his name. As loud as she possibly could as her legs kicked the empty space in front of her and attempted to keep her in the room.

“Stiles!”

“Lydia!”

His shouts of her name were followed by harsh rattling sounds. He was attempting to break free. He was contemplating breaking his own wrists because despite everything that had happened between them, the words they had said, the looks they had given each other, she was Lydia Martin and he was Stiles Stilinski. There was no way in hell that he would ever lose her. Not without a fight.

“STILES!”

It was only when her eyes adjusted to the light that she could ascertain their location. It was a hallway, not unlike the ones at the Calaveras’. Lydia could no longer hear Stiles’ voice, the door to her cell had been shut. The two men who had pointed the rifles at them by the Jeep were the ones who were carrying her. She attempted to kick at them but it was useless.

Her head turned as much as it could to look back to where Stiles’ door was. A woman was entering it with something similar to Deaton’s telescopic baton in her hand. She heard his voice again just as she rounded the corner of the hallway.

“LYDIA!”

Stiles was still trying to break free, turning his wrist with such force and in a way that no wrist was ever meant to bend. It was only when he heard the break and felt the unbelievable pain that he was hit across the head with a blunt force instrument. His hands were freed from their restraints as he slumped to the floor. His eyes fluttering shut as he tried to scream it again.

But it was barely a whisper as he lost consciousness.

“ _Lydia_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was strangely structured but I found it difficult to start in the pack meeting, I don't know why.
> 
> Also the title of this chapter and the next chapter basically cements the fact that Stiles and Lydia will be together in the end but given that this is a Stydia fic, that ending was pretty obvious to begin with. Anyway, the title comes from "Poison & Wine", which to me is one perfect song that captures the sevendevils!Stydia relationship, especially with what's to come. It also works because they don't have a choice when going with the goons.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did and if you have any questions, you can find me [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/ask) or you can leave a comment if you want to. Both positive and negative feedback is always appreciated, it helps me figure out what works and what doesn't :)


	7. but I'd still choose you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then she stopped trying to fight it. It wasn’t due to lack of fear; the immense fear that had made itself at home within her was palpable. Her fear would be pungent to anyone, regardless of supernaturally-enhanced senses. But she needed to have a clear head.
> 
> Because he had called her Miss Martin.
> 
> And there was nothing about her general appearance that announced her identity.
> 
> It wasn’t as if she was wearing a name tag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. I'm sorry I've been gone so long and I hope that this chapter makes up for it. I know it's all over the place but I really liked it and I hope you do to.

The crude, makeshift gag that had been wrapped around her mouth tasted bitter; it was a mixture of tequila and a fruit that she couldn’t discern. The goons had placed it in her mouth as her shouts of Stiles’ name and her cries for help had been deemed “annoying”. Lydia thought it was more than warranted, considering she was in an unknown location with two men who looked like their only forms of sustenance was giant slabs of beef with a side of steroids. Actually Lydia thought it counted as a basic survival instinct to scream for help after being kidnapped, locked up and subsequently carried to a second location in which she would most likely be killed.

They were going to become a cautionary tale that Coach told each year: “ _I knew them well. They were idiots, but they were my favorite idiots. What happened to them will make your genitals shrivel up and fall off… So, who wants to hear the story? Greenberg, put your hand down. What the hell are you even still doing here? Are you that profoundly moronic that you’ve yet to figure out the basic pattern of my answers? You’re the sole reason I weep for humanity_.”

The only thing that made the experience somewhat less terrifying and blood-curdling was the fact that Lydia had been able to inflict some sort of harm to one of the men. As the vocally-predisposed goon bent over to place the thick rag across her mouth, Lydia had kicked out one of her legs, mustering all the strength that she could. She had been aiming for his shin, but had connected with another part of his body altogether. The sound he made after her accidental crotch kick was one of the only things that was keeping Lydia from breaking down.

There was one goon on either side of her, holding onto their designated arm with persistent strength. Her head kept turning in her attempts to see... _something_. Her desperate hopes of seeing Scott McCall, red-eyed and bearing fangs, at the end of one of the adjoining hallways that she and the men continued to pass proved to be nothing more than unrealistic expectations as the men stopped in front of large, mahogany double doors.

Lydia’s legs attempted to break free of the loose knotted rag that had been wrapped tied around her ankles after her “ _outburst_ ” as the vocally-predisposed goon called it. The itch in the back of her throat was making itself more apparent; it was beginning to make breathing a difficulty. Lydia didn’t need to be psychic to know that what lay on the other side of those doors.

Then she stopped trying to fight it. It wasn’t due to lack of fear; the immense fear that had made itself at home within her was palpable. Her fear would be pungent to anyone, regardless of supernaturally-enhanced senses. But she needed to have a clear head.

Because he had called her _Miss Martin_.

And there was nothing about her general appearance that announced her identity.

It wasn’t as if she was wearing a name tag.

The mute goon pushed open the doors with his free hand. The room had a royal-feel to it; gold and various shades of reds decorated the large room. Behind the oversized mahogany desk in the middle of the room sat a woman. It wasn’t Araya Calavera. Lydia had never seen the woman before.

Her fear only grew in immensity.

The men dropped her carelessly in the chair that was placed opposite to the woman. The vocally-predisposed goon removed the rag from between Lydia’s lips and the binding around her ankles before nodding to the woman and joining his counterpart in the hallway.

A manufactured steely resolve took the place of her fear as Lydia stared at the woman. It was with an arched eyebrow and a glance at her fingernails that her mouth opened. “We have a deal with the Calaveras. If you’re breaking said deal, I can assure you that it won’t end well... _for you_.”

The confident tone that accompanied her words was almost foreign to Lydia, as her heart was currently pounding against her chest, but she wasn’t about to let the woman sitting in front of her know this. Lydia Martin would exude confidence until the last breath left her body, even if it was fabricated to hide the fear that was bubbling under the surface.

“I’m not associated with the Calaveras,” the woman replied, her fingernails tapping on the desk beneath her fingers. “My allegiance lies _elsewhere_.”

“With La Loba?”

The name had been spoken countless times before within the pack: _La Loba, the Bone Woman, the elusive Desert Wolf_. Even before Stiles’ inane idea to drag them down to talk to someone who knew the Desert Wolf, the pack had spoken about it. She was Malia’s mother. She was Braeden’s mysterious adversary. She was a woman that Talia Hale had never wanted her brother to remember.

Stiles hadn’t said that the contact who knew the Desert Wolf would kidnap and chain them up in their residence but the assumption hadn’t been disqualified either.

The woman laughed. “ _La Loba_?”

“Or whatever synonymous moniker you address her with.”

“They told me you were clever.”

It was with this that Lydia laughed. She leaned forward to ensure that her eyes met the woman’s. “They undersold me.”

* * *

Being able to ride with no distractions soothed him. It was part of the reason why Scott had wanted a motorbike instead of a car. Another part, probably what he considered the sole reason he wouldn’t get behind the wheel of a car, was the incident with the Sheriff’s car. The only good consequence of the incident was that the Beacon Hills swimming pool finally had a purpose for buying a sturdy fence... and retiling the pool.

The only thing that was on his mind was the overpowering thought that Beacon Hills had really become a beacon for the malicious and supernatural.

Just once he would like three months where the worst thing that happened was his mom found a box of condoms in his drawer and proceeded to give another powerpoint presentation on STDS to him and Stiles; at least now that he was having sex, Stiles presumably wouldn’t interject every few minutes to add a strange – and frequently _nightmare fuelling_ – fact about STDs in medieval times.

But that wasn’t their life.

They weren’t... _normal_.

They were a pack of warriors, of hunters and supernaturals, who were forced to carry the burden of protecting Beacon Hills and its inhabitants because it was their duty.

Even if they wanted to ignore it, it would always be there.

The bite hadn’t just changed _his_ life.

It turned _her_ into the Argent matriarch.

It activated Lydia’s banshee abilities.

It converted Beacon Hills into a beacon again.

It allowed a trickster to wear his best friend’s body like a suit.

It prompted the emergence of the kitsune in Kira.

It transformed Malia from a coyote to a human.

_And it killed his first love._

He hardly ever spoke her name; while once it had fallen off his tongue like smooth honey, it now left a bitter taste in his mouth. Even the memory of her left him feeling like he was drowning.

He hadn’t saved her. He hadn’t even been able to take away her pain.

There were nights when Scott laid in his bed and was able to remember exactly how it felt to hold her lifeless body in his arms.

But he didn’t cry.

He hadn’t cried since the night they killed the Nogitsune and his mother had held him close to her chest. She didn’t tell him that it was going to be okay or that it was alright because they both knew it wouldn’t be.

Deaton had found him one night, buried in the bestiaries and archives that were supposed to be locked away. Scott was searching for any way to bring her back – “ _IF PETER CAN RESURRECT HIMSELF, WHY CAN’T SHE?_ ” – but there was nothing that he could do to bring her back.

Until the Necromancer.

Scott loved Kira. He didn’t need to say the words to know it was true.

But it was Allison.

Scott’s love for her was unmeasurable and unmovable; not even death could deter it.

After the pack meeting, Deaton had told him not to be too hopeful about the prospect. The Necromancer would likely raise the dead, but after the pack stopped him, anyone he raised would return to their previous state. Deaton promised to look into his archives regardless so long as Scott promised not to let his desire to bring Allison back to life cloud his judgement; “ _Scott, it isn’t simply how you interact with your adversaries, which measures the strength of your character and your virtue. If you allow yourself to be solely controlled by your love and grief over Allison, you will fall prey to the curse that has afflicted many an Alpha before you... and if that happens, not even your closest friends will be able to pull you back_.”

That was proving to be a difficult task.

In the two nights that had passed since the pack meeting, Allison had haunted his dreams. He had always assumed that Allison’s appearance in his dreams would involve blame and anger for what happened. He thought his dreams would be fraught with everything he had told himself after her death.

Yet, Allison hadn’t said anything he expected. She had sat on the edge of his bed at first, her fingers stroking her hair and just watched him. Then she had moved to lay beside him and his hands found solace as they lay on her waist, pulling her closer to him as they stared into each other’s eyes.

“I’ve missed you.”

Those were the first words that fell from his lips while his fingers traced small circles on her lower back.

When she smiled, it lit a fire within him. Photographs and memories were nothing when compared to that smile first-hand. “I know.”

“Do you hate me?” His tone was soft to match hers.

“No,” she replied as her hand moved up to cup his cheek. “No, I could never hate you, Scott.”

It felt so real but Scott knew that any second, his alarm clock would ring or his mom would knock at the door. He had to cherish every moment with the dream of his first love because once he woke up, his brain would never be able to recreate the same feeling that laying with her at that moment did.

The second night, he found himself in the same position, holding Allison and staring into her eyes. It still felt so real to him, but he knew it couldn’t be.

“I wanted to stay with you forever,” Allison whispered, her finger tracing along his cheekbone.

“I thought we were going to be together,” Scott replied. His gaze trailed away from her eyes for a moment, wondering how a dream could make his heart pound against his chest. When his eyes returned to hers, the sweet smile that he had fallen in love with had graced her lips. “I love Kira, but I thought that eventually, you and I would find our way back to each other. I didn’t care if we were twenty, or thirty, or even eighty-five and living on different sides of the world. I thought we’d die together... but you did that without me.”

Allison’s finger stopped in its movement. Her hand cupped his cheek, like it had in the previous night’s dream, while her sweet smile gained a quiet melancholy to it. “It wasn’t by choice.”

Scott’s hand moved from her hip to cover hers on his cheek. “I know. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“I know.”

The last two words his dream Allison had spoken to him.

Those two words had been the reason he had wanted to travel alone. He couldn’t sit in Stiles’ Jeep, with Kira’s hand intertwined with his and pretend that it hadn’t happened. Even though it was a dream, it felt so real that he could barely look Kira in the eyes without feeling an immense pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach.

He was in love with Kira.

But Allison was... _Allison_.

Scott had been parked outside the bar he was supposed to meet the pack at for almost twenty minutes. His mind repeated the past two nights in an attempt to find some reason as to why they had felt so tactile but he couldn’t come up with a conclusion. He wanted to ask the most logical person he knew but Lydia didn’t talk about Allison. He wanted to ask his best friend as an alternative but Stiles didn’t talk about Allison. Scott couldn’t ask his girlfriend out of guilt and he knew that if he even mentioned it to Deaton, the veterinarian would stop searching for a way to bring Allison back.

It was only after the third unanswered text to Lydia and fifth unanswered call to Stiles that Scott dialled Derek’s number.

He answered immediately. “Just tell Isaac that he’s too pretty for jail.”

Scott’s eyebrows creased with confusion. “What?”

“He wants to kill Stiles.” Derek sounded exhausted, like he had been dealing with the tension for the past few hours. Knowing what the environment of the Jeep would be like in an attempt to keep it light and happy, Derek probably _had_ been dealing with it. “Actually he wants to expletive-ing kill that expletive-ing Stiles. His texts aren’t as graphic as Lydia’s though; we should definitely keep an eye on her.”

“What are you talking about?”

He could practically see Derek roll his eyes as he let out an exasperated sigh. “Stiles decided to try out a shortcut a few hours ago. Isaac and Lydia stopped angrily texting me so I figured it worked out. Didn’t it?”

With that, it was Scott’s eyes that narrowed with confusion. He glanced around the street that he found himself on before he felt a similar pang of guilt begin to grow in the put of his stomach. “Derek, when was the last time you spoke to anyone in the Jeep?”

“ _A few hours ago_ ,” Derek repeated slowly. In the brief pause as the last syllable echoed through the phone, Scott knew the realization hit him. “They’re not with you.”

“I wouldn’t have called if they were.”

“Where are they?”

Scott shook his head, his frustration and worry beginning to surface. “I wouldn’t have called if I knew.”

There was a shuffle on the other end before a thud. The phone had been put on Derek’s table and placed on speakerphone.

Deaton’s voice resonated through the phone; it wasn’t panicked, but calm. He was the most level-headed of the three which was proving to be an asset in this situation. “Scott, when was the last time you saw them?”

“I can’t remember.”

With those words, his guilt grew in immensity. He hadn’t been paying attention to them because he didn’t think they needed him to. His mind had been elsewhere but he couldn’t tell the two men on the phone about that. He couldn’t admit that his mind had been occupied with Allison while his closest friends disappeared.

“Scott,” Derek said, breaking through the guilt. “The last time we saw Kate was in Mexico. What if--”

“Find another supernatural being,” Deaton interrupted. “Track the scent, ask them questions and find out where the others are. I have a contact down there who can help if you can’t find anything.”

Scott nodded his head. “Okay.”

Just as he was about to hang up, he heard Deaton’s voice. “This is not your fault, Scott.”

He wanted to reply. He wanted to say something but no sound left his throat. Scott simply nodded his head again before ending the call and putting his phone back in his pocket.

A small part of him believed that they were okay; Stiles’ shortcut had taken longer than expected and the Jeep would soon come into sight with the sounds of arguments resonating in the street. That would easy though, and when were their lives ever easy?

Easy times for them could practically be the definition of ephemeral.

The smell of another werewolf filled his nostrils. His feet moved in the direction of the scent before his brain had actually grasped the concept. He ignored the people who attempted to talk to him as he walked across the road and into the almost desolate building. The only one who stood inside was behind the bar, wiping down shot glasses with a rag. The man seemed surprised to hear the door open, especially when he took into Scott’s appearance and scent, but acted nonchalant as he continued to clean his shot glasses.

“What can I get for you?” He asked, putting down his rag as Scott stopped opposite him.

“Information.”

“There’s an information desk at the motel a few buildings down.”

Scott’s eyes flashed red, which wiped away the barman’s nonchalant attitude. It almost seemed to instil fear in him as he dropped the shot glass that had been in his hand. The sound of Scott’s soft but menacing growl and the glass shattering echoed in the empty room.

“Where are my friends?” Scott punctuated each word with an inching of his head toward the barman. The question was followed with a louder growl that allowed him to show the very sharp incisors he had attained after becoming a werewolf.

He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He never wanted anyone to get hurt because of him. But after everything they had been through, the monstrous side of Scott McCall was creeping out. They were his pack. _His_. Nobody touched his pack without suffering consequences. Not anymore.

Just as his claws began to emerge, a third person’s hand wrapped around his wrist. Scott looked away from barman to the new arrival. His eyes returned to their natural color and his face relinquished any trace of werewolf as he looked at Chris Argent.

“This isn’t how you do things, Scott.”

“I need to know where they are,” Scott replied, pulling his wrist free.

“I know where they are.”

* * *

Bright light pierced through his closed lids. His eyes slowly opened, trying to adjust to the new bright room in which he found himself.

It was clean. It was sterile. A crisp, almost all white room that was a stark contrast to the last room he had been handcuffed in. Only one of his hands was cuffed this time; it was beside him, attached to the chair’s armrest. His other hand had been bandaged but he could still feel the pain from breaking his wrist. It was worth though. Or it would have been had he not been knocked unconscious before he could save Lydia.

His head still ached from the hit that it had obtained but right now he didn’t care because Lydia had been taken. Lydia had been carried away by someone or multiple someones while Kira and Isaac were elsewhere, either tied up or tortured, and Malia and Scott were MIA. All Stiles could hope was that both Kira and Isaac were not being tortured and that his girlfriend and best friend had found each other and were now on their way to them in what would be a heart-warming rescue operation.

Stiles tried to pull away from the chair. He didn’t want to break his wrist because Lydia was right; “ _if you break your wrists, you won’t be able to do anything_ ”.

But he needed to do _something_.

“It’s no use,” a woman said as she entered. “Unless you have a werewolf’s strength, you’re stuck to that chair.”

“We have a deal with the Calaveras.” Stiles looked over this woman but nothing about her seemed familiar. Still, he had to hope that she worked for Araya.

The woman leaned against the door. “We’re not associated with the Calaveras.”

“Could you be?” Stiles said with a sigh. “We have a deal with them.”

“We don’t want to hurt you.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes before motioning to his head with his free hand. “Someone _hit_ me over the head and knocked me unconscious.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “You were trying to escape.”

“Right,” he replied, rolling his eyes as well. “Because that’s the most detestable thing that’s happened in the last 24 hours... Not the whole kidnapping four minors thing.”

“You, the kitsune and the werewolf were just collateral.”

“Why would you need us?”

“To ensure that my bosses get what they want.”

It always came down to this. True Alphas were rare, which meant that when news spread that there was one in California, the pack suddenly had a target on their backs. Some werewolf packs wanted a true alpha to strengthen them while others wanted to kidnap Scott and keep him until they could figure out how they would need to kill him in order to gain everything that came with being a True Alpha. Peter might have been right – a phrase Stiles never wanted to think again – when he claimed that it could be done through harnessing the Tezcatlipoca. If that were true then Stiles suggesting they travel down to Mexico was by far one of the stupidest plans he had ever come up with. Four members of the pack were being using as insurance because people knew how Scott would go to save his friends. Even so far as giving himself up in exchange for their safety. If he did that, then they could easily take him to the Tezcatlipoca and steal his power. All because Stiles and Malia couldn’t wait to find out information about the Desert Wolf.

“A True Alpha.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed in confusion, which confused him. “No, a banshee.”

_Lydia._

Stiles’ teeth clenched together involuntarily, as did his cuffed hand. “Why?”

The woman’s eyes locked on his before turned away to grab the door handle. Stiles tried to move away toward her in an attempt to stop her but the handcuff pulled him back.

“Why?” he repeated. This time the tone of his voice expressed every emotion he was feeling: anger, fear, surprise, regret. If anything happened to Lydia, if anything happened to Lydia because of his desire to find answers for himself and Malia...

If anything happened to her, Stiles _would_ lose his mind.

He had said it before – to himself, to Scott, to Allison, to Lydia herself – but he hadn’t truly grasped the wholeness of the vow when it had previously been said. There was only one other time in his life when he had truly understood what he meant and just how much Lydia Martin meant to him; that was the night when he and Lydia had been at the hands of Brunski. His heart had been pounding in his ears, his mind had been racing with thoughts of his father and how he would react if Stiles died, but the second that he had seen Brunski turn his attention and the syringe he was holding toward Lydia; it was in that moment that Stiles truly understood the weight of his words and the absolute truth behind them.

There was no suppressing that.

He would step in gasoline and hold a flare for his brother.

He would sacrifice himself for his father.

He would lose his mind and tear the world apart for the strawberry blond genius that had been his sun since the third grade.

The woman turned her head slightly, leaving Stiles to stare at her profile. “Still waters run deep.”

Before Stiles could reply, the woman was gone which left Stiles alone, chained to a chair with a broken wrist and a thousand questions running through his brain; none of which he could answer but each spawning a dozen of sub-questions that there were no answers to.

The overwhelming, captalized-and-flashing-in-bright-neon question was the only one he desperately needed an answer to.

_Is Lydia okay?_

* * *

She knew it was a tactic. She wasn’t stupid enough or ignorant enough to believe that she and her friends could be kidnapped and chained up just so a woman – Maria was the name she had introduced herself with but Lydia had doubts about it – could stare at her from across a table and not say anything.

After mentioning La Loba, Maria had practically become mute, aside from introducing herself. The silence had made Lydia bored and even more irritated than she had been. She had studied each square inch of Maria’s office, hoping to find some indication that her friends were okay as well as any indication of who exactly had ordered them to be kidnapped in the first place but there was nothing. Even when Lydia attempted to emit information through a withering glare directed at Maria, there was nothing.

It was more than a little annoying.

It made Lydia long for Peter and Jennifer and the Nogitsune and even Brunski; those four loved to talk. When they talked, even as Lydia was being manipulated and on the brink of death, they said something that ultimately helped her and the rest of the pack.

But Maria was smarter than that.

And Lydia had yet to inherit any intimidating supernatural ability that could be used to gain the information she wanted.

When her eyes found Maria’s, Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose before giving in. She would be the first to break the silence. She wouldn’t have the higher ground but maybe, just maybe, she would know where her friends were.

“Where are my friends?”

Maria took in a deep breath before pushing herself away from her desk in order to stand up. “There isn’t much lore on banshees. Despite being a particularly loud supernatural creature, they are surprisingly good at hiding themselves. They aren't arrogant like werewolves and wendigos. They’re... _silent_. They stand on the sidelines of war but they won’t take part. Not unless they have to.”

While Lydia wanted to know more about who she was and what it meant to be a banshee, she couldn’t be selfish. Even when every instinct was screaming to. Lydia knew that Stiles, Isaac and Kira were the priority.

Lydia crossed her legs as a hand came up to flip the hair from her face before again intertwining with the other on her lap. “You have three of my friends somewhere in this building. I want to know where they are and if they’re okay. I’ll give you ten seconds after I’ve stopped talking to tell me or else, you’re going to have a problem.”

“I have an extensive file on you, Lydia Martin. I know where you were born. I know your mother’s maiden name. I even know that your grandmother affectionately called you _Ariel_ ,” Maria continued, paying no attention to anything Lydia had said. “It’s quite funny. Being nicknamed after a mermaid by a woman who was blatantly unaware of the abilities she possessed. Your grandmother was oblivious to her true nature. She had no idea that the lore of mermaids and banshees were often confused with each other yet she fondly gave her only granddaughter – _the banshee_ – a nickname whose origins came from _a mermaid_.”

Her instincts were screeching. There were so many questions categorizing themselves in her head but she couldn’t do that to her friends. As her brain filtered out the questions, her eyes followed Maria as she rounded the table to abruptly turn Lydia’s chair. She was had been turned to face the door while Maria began to walk again. She opened the door, nodded her head before taking a seat on the chaise opposite Lydia’s current position.

The vocal goon entered, slamming the door shut behind him. It rattled the room. It caused Lydia’s hands to separate and clench the armrests of the chair. It made her flinch and shut her eyes briefly. That reaction was noticed and Lydia knew that she was theirs now. They had scared her. Now, they could control her

And after Peter’s invasion of her mind, control was the one thing Lydia hated losing.

“Banshees are rare these days. They could have either disguised themselves or were mistaken for witches and burned alive during that brief period. We don’t know the exact reason but we know that when we find one, we have to act quickly.”

“You’re collectors?” Lydia asked incredulously before scoffing, even though the thought sent chills done her spine.

Maria scoffed herself. “Relax, we have no intention of putting your head on a plaque and hanging it above the fireplace. We simply want to ensure that you understand who you are.”

“I know who I am. My name is Lydia Martin. I have an I.Q. of 170, I’m going to be valedictorian and I’m going to win the Fields Medal.” Lydia’s gaze shifted between the goon and Maria. Her confidence began to return to her as a smirk slowly emerged on her lips. “I’m also part of Scott McCall’s pack. If you have a file on me, then you must have one on the pack and everyone in it. And if have those, then you know exactly what happens when a pack member is threatened. You kidnapped four of us and chained us up like animals. It won’t matter who the puppet master is here, because we will tear this organization apart and ensure that this never happens to another supernatural being. If you don’t believe me, you can look in that file you’ve got. A centuries old hunter family, a pack of alpha werewolves, a thousand year old spirit; they came, they wreaked havoc and we tore them apart. So, again, I’m going to give you ten seconds after I’ve finished talking to tell me where my friends or I will be the spark that ignites this powder keg.”

Lydia stayed in her chair, her eyes locked with Maria, who looked amused. She leaned forward on the chaise. “You think a few teenagers scare us? Deucalion, the Argents; they’re the pawns in this game, Lydia. You’re dealing with the Queen and she doesn’t like threats.”

The goon took a step toward Lydia. Her breath caught in her throat while the fast, heavy pounding of her heart felt like it was about to break through her sternum.

“Tell me.” Maria stood up as the goon took yet another step in Lydia’s direction. “How do you like the headaches, Miss Martin?”

* * *

“Do you have a plan?”

Chris and Scott had found a secure area in the opposite building to monitor and case the building that the bartender had directed them to. It didn’t seem difficult to break into; there was one guard standing at the front door with no visible weapon and no supernatural scent that Scott could detect. It was finding his friends and leaving the building that was proving to be difficult. They weren’t invincible; that had been continuously proven over the past three years. Scott had no idea what was happening in the building but if they had been beaten, he would have to carry them out and there would be no way in which to fight. He wouldn’t let Chris sacrifice himself for this. Even if the entire situation was making Scott feel physically nauseous, he wouldn’t let another Argent die for them.

Scott turned away from his spot at the window to look at Chris, who was currently standing against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. “Actually, I was going to ask you.”

Chris let out a hollow laugh before he walked over to stand beside Scott. He knelt slightly in order to peer out the window. His finger pointed toward the building. “One guard out front isn’t a declaration of their inadequacies. It’s just the opposite. One guard out front means that they have enough man power inside to deal with anyone who makes it through the first guy.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“They’re not associated with the Calaveras, Scott. Whoever this is, they’re new players.”

Scott shook his head and walked away from the window. “They have my pack. They’re not going to be new for long.”

Just as Scott was preparing to leave, Chris’ hand grabbed his shoulder. Scott knew what he wanted to say – _this isn’t you. You don’t attack people. You save people. You spare people even when they don’t deserve it_ – but no words left Chris’ mouth. They just stood there for a moment. Chris trying to remind Scott of his true nature, not the animalistic side that came with the bite, and Scott trying to erase the images of the pack members and friends they had already lost.

He wouldn’t lose anyone else.

Not after Allison.

“We can’t stand to lose anyone else,” Scott said as he pulled away from Chris and exited the room.

* * *

Stiles wasn’t graceful. He wasn’t capable of it.

Stiles was all flailing limbs and unbalanced coordination; he knew that and embraced that unchangeable aspect of himself. The only time he wasn’t was when he was on the lacrosse field and even then, it was only a brief time between standing upright and lying on the cold grass with an inability to catch his breath.

Yet he continued to try and reach something that could unlock the handcuff that was currently the shiny fashion accessory on his wrist.

He had been in this situation before; his father had handcuffed him to a Sheriff’s station desk but luckily for him, a friendly deputy came along and aided his escape. This time he doubted a deputy would magically appear from one of the cupboards with a master key and something for the pain in his wrist.

Instead, he would have to rely on his legs.

Stiles moved as far away from the chair as he could before he risked breaking his other wrist or dislocating his shoulder. He brought his leg up, awkwardly hopping until his foot hooked under one of the cupboard’s handles. Carefully, he opened the drawer, moving backwards as the drawer moved forwards. Once it became apparent that it was open as far as it could be, his careful attitude faded. He aimed his foot underneath the open drawer and kicked it as hard as he could.

The contents rattled but nothing happened so he kicked it again.

And again.

And again.

Until the bottom of the drawer broke open and everything spilled on the floor.

It was an array of medical equipment, which, given the purpose of the room, wasn’t surprising. Stiles had never attempted to pick a lock but had watched tutorials online when he couldn’t sleep. He just needed to find the right tool.

Actually picking it up was a problem.

He could crouch down but his bandaged hand still throbbed. It would hurt like hell to pick anything... but his friends needed him. Lydia needed him. They needed him to get them out of the situation he had gotten them into. And Stiles needed to save them because otherwise he would never stop feeling guilty.

He settled on using his mouth to pick it up. Once he had slid the instruments toward him, Stiles awkwardly rocked himself forward. His nose hit the ground hard but he would focus on the pain later. His attention was solely focused on picking up a tool and escaping.

It was just as his mouth had picked up the tool that he heard it.

The door was opening and Stiles was crouched down among medical equipment. This was going to end badly for him; his increased heartbeat was a clear indication of his fear over what was about to happen.

“It’s times like this I wish I had your wit,” Isaac said. Stiles’ head popped up to look at Isaac moving to help him off the ground. “Actually, it’s times when you’re in a stupid position that I wish I did so you would know how unhelpful it is to have someone spouting snarky remarks when you’re trying to do something.”

Stiles released the medical tool in his mouth as Isaac began to break the chain of the handcuff. “My snarky remarks lighten the mood.”

Isaac rolled his eyes. With one careful tug, Stiles was given his hand back. His hand just happened to come with the shiny fashion accessory, minus the matching chair. It was as his mouth opened to make a comment about it that Stiles noticed the blood on Isaac’s shirt. Isaac looked down and shrugged, turning on his heels to exit the room with Stiles following behind him.

“Don’t worry, it’s mine,” which answered the unasked question that hung in the air between them.

Stiles’ eyes rolled involuntarily. “That doesn’t really invoke optimism in our great escape.”

Isaac shrugged a shoulder, practically writing off being beaten up. It wasn’t surprising; given everything that Stiles had learned about Isaac’s situation pre-werewolfitude, being beaten up was something he was used to. Physical violence seemed to be a big part of the Lahey household during the early stages of Isaac’s teenage years. Stiles wanted to reach out, ask him if he was okay, but they weren’t friends like that. They bickered and they glared at each other; they didn't blatantly care about each other.

As if he read Stiles’ thoughts, Isaac turned his head in Stiles’ direction, never breaking his stride as he did. “I’m fine. This is from when we first arrived, I was looking out for Kira and they obviously didn’t like that. I got my revenge when Scott and Chris rode in on their noble steeds.”

“You didn’t... kill him, right?” Stiles asked hesitantly.

“No,” Isaac replied with a roll of his eyes. “Do you really think I’d kill anyone with Scott and Chris around?”

The answer in the form of a question raised more questions itself but Stiles didn’t touch them. He didn’t want to know the answer to that so he let it be a rhetorical question between two quasi-friends who were striding down a hallway to save their supernatural friends so they could get the hell of out dodge. Despite wanting to help Malia and wanting to know himself, finding Desert Wolf wasn’t worth his friends’ lives.

“Have you found Lydia?”

Isaac shook his head before dropping it slightly. It was still hard to process – given that one of the last times Stiles had heard Isaac talk about Lydia was when he was planning on killing her – that Lydia and Isaac were friends. “We can’t catch her scent. We tried but then Scott caught Kira’s and this big guy practically threw Chris across the hallway so we were distracted.”

It was a split-second decision. Stiles’ brain hadn’t even begun to comprehend the words that were coming out of his mouth or the movement of his legs yet there he was. His head turned back slightly even though he knew that Isaac would be able to hear him regardless. “Go help them.”

“Where are you going?” Isaac shouted from behind him.

“I have to find her.”

Stiles had no idea where to go. The entire building was like a maze to him. There was no distinguishing features on any of the walls or floors, each door was the same and no matter which way he turned, he ended up running down a hallway that looked exactly like the previous one he was in. But he kept running.

He needed to find her. He needed to know she was okay. He needed...

He needed _her_.

The moment he saw the double doors he attempted to step backwards which resulted in a less than graceful meeting with the wall as he tripped over his own feet and fell. It was both a subtle attempt to hide from anyone who might have been guarding the doors as well stopping himself from leaving the hallway and being trapped in the endless maze that was the building they were in.

Ignoring the pain that was slowly beginning to radiate from the back of his head as well as the unrelenting twinge from his wrist, Stiles pushed himself off the ground and inched toward the corner where the hallway he was currently in and the hallway that housed the double doors intersected. He took a deep breath, calming himself and preparing for the outcomes that would follow if he was caught, before craning his neck around to survey the scene.

There were no cameras or other visible security measures. There was nothing and no one to stop Stiles from marching down the hallway and opening those doors. The absence of guards was more than likely a result of Scott and Chris’ rescue, which was good for him in that moment, but also created a dozen more possibilities about what lay behind the doors. Stiles was either about to walk into an empty room or would face any number of goons like the ones who had kidnapped them in the first place. Without supernatural strength or agility, Stiles would definitely get his ass kicked.

He was contemplating turning around to find Isaac or Chris when he heard it. It tore through his heart like a bullet. It was a scream he had heard many times before but this scream was different.

It sent a chill down his spine and made the hairs on his arm stand up.

It was that scream which made Stiles forget all of his previous worries about who was waiting behind the doors.

His feet ran as fast as they humanly could as he braced himself for the force that would come with ramming into the double doors. His shoulder connected with the wooden doors and he fell through into a room that looked so dissimilar when compared to the rest of the building. As Stiles found his feet, his gaze moved to the center of the room where he saw her. Lydia was being held in a chair by one of the goons who had taken them in the first place. Her mascara was beginning to streak down her face, her hair was dishevelled and her eyes were bloodshot.

Her green eyes met his hazel ones; there was no optimism in them, only fear. She shook her head violently as tears began to well. The goon turned around, releasing his hands from where they had been holding Lydia’s to the arm rests.

“Stiles, run,” she shouted. Or attempted to shout as her voice came out frail and broken.

That wasn’t an option. That wasn’t even a thought.

He grabbed the first thing he could see; a lamp. It would be as effective as his aluminium bat but it was something at least. With the goon walking towards him, Stiles did the only thing he could think of to get them out of there. He pulled his arm back, mustered all the strength he could and hit the guard across the face. It was a hard enough hit that the lamp not only shattered on impact but the guard fell to the floor unconscious as well. That was not exactly the reaction Stiles had expected nor Lydia as they both mirrored the same expression of shock and awe as their eyes once again met.

A small smile appeared on her face as she let out a soft laugh. “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing shining armour when you do that?”

Stiles laughed as well; it was half-hearted but the smile that tugged on his lips was genuine. He put his arm around her when she stood up and began to walk out of the room. Lydia stopped, removing herself from Stiles’ arm, before walking back to the desk.

There had to be something. There had to be _anything_ in the drawers that would explain who these people were. Other people's knowledge of banshees and Lydia’s life were not the only things that she was going to take away from this experience. She was not going to walk away from this situation without knowing; it would drive her insane to do that. Lydia would tear the entire room apart if she had to. Maria had left before the goon had begun to physically threaten her. Lydia assumed it was because she didn’t want to get her hands dirty. There was no one to stop Lydia from rummaging through the room. Even Stiles stood back and watched, not saying one word, as Lydia pulled open every drawer.

With each discovery of an empty drawer, the anger and frustration that had been building up inside of her since they had first been driven to the building emerged. The last drawer she opened made the anger and frustration explode. Lydia slammed the drawers shut, kicking over the desk chair as she did, before finally letting out an angry, broken sob.

It had been for nothing.

Everything that had happened was without a known reason to her.

They had been kidnapped, locked up and threatened and Lydia had no idea why.

When they left the building, Lydia was silent. She nodded her head when questions about how she was were asked but that was the extent of her communication. She watched as Stiles embraced Malia when she emerged from his Jeep with a look of remorseful expression on her face. Malia explained where she had been. She was following Scott’s scent but lost it and when she ran back to the Jeep, the four were gone. She spent the rest of the night and early morning tracking their individual scents until she had gotten a call from Scott. Stiles didn’t even seem angry that someone other than him had driven the Jeep; he was just happy she was okay as made apparent by their overly long embrace. Lydia’s heart ached slightly as she watched.

Stiles assured them that he could drive home in spite of his wrist. Malia sat beside him, her hand on his thigh as she repeatedly stated how happy she was that he was okay and apologized, saying how she never should have left him. Lydia eventually tuned the couple out; but that may not have been entirely her doing.

The closer they got to Beacon Hills, the worse Lydia began to feel. By the time they passed the “Welcome to Beacon Hills” sign, Lydia’s headache was back. She didn’t say anything, just dug her fingers into the cushion of the backseat, but Isaac noticed. His hand was on her arm with no warning and as she was about to open her mouth to ask him why, she saw them. She had only ever seen Scott do it but there they were, the black, pulsing veins. Her eyes moved to Isaac’s, who simply smiled at her. There had never been moments where she had seen Isaac look so... compassionate but here he was, taking away her pain without being asked to.

Lydia smiled back at him before putting her hand on his and removing it from her arm. The pain had subsided for the moment but more than that, Lydia didn’t want to have him feel what she felt. She didn’t want the pain to be inflicted on anyone else.

Eventually the Jeep came to a stop outside Derek’s loft. Both Derek and Deaton were waiting outside for the pack. Deaton moved to Scott as he and Kira climbed off his motorbike, wondering how Scott and Kira were and who these people who had taken them were, while Derek moved to help Lydia out of the Jeep.

“Are you okay?” Derek leaned down and whispered, his arm wrapping around her waist to hold her steady as the pack walked into the building.

Lydia nodded even though it was a lie. Her headache had returned, she felt nauseous and all she wanted to do was lie down. Even the return of Allison beside her as they walked did nothing to comfort her. There was no possible way in which Lydia would be able to go home alone; Derek and Isaac would make her stay the night at the loft or Stiles would make her stay at his house or Scott would or Kira. Even if she didn’t say a word, Lydia was not going to be able to fake being okay for much longer.

Derek and Lydia were slower than the others, who were explaining to Deaton everything that had happened and how Chris had gone back to the Calaveras for answers. They were in their own separate worlds as they ascended the building’s staircase. They were completely unaware that the conversation had stopped until they walked up behind their friends, who were just standing at the open door to the loft. No one said a word, they simply stared inside. Derek and Lydia exchanged glances before they saw what exactly it was that had rendered everyone silent.

A large, red spiral had been painted onto the floor of the loft. Everyone knew what that meant. Everyone was well aware of the exact meaning of the symbol. Though no one knew why it was there.

Who would want revenge against Derek? Or the pack in general?

Actually, there was a long list of people, both supernatural and otherwise, who wanted revenge against them. That would a fun list to comb through.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a bad attempt at feng-shui-ing the loft,” Stiles said, breaking the silence. He turned his head to look at Derek and was met with a stone-cold expression. “I’ll take that as a no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? :)  
> Like I said last chapter, the title is not only a lyric from a song I believe really works for the BYKD!Stydia but also works within the story as Stiles chooses to find Lydia over anything else when Isaac rescues him.
> 
> If you have any questions, leave a comment or visit me [here.](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/ask)


	8. like butterflies around a flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> However, the sporadic appearances of her best friend next to her meant she was never truly alone. Not when those appearances came with conversations including cryptic messages and the overwhelming feeling that Lydia was losing her mind at the hands of the Necromancer. But Lydia needed someone or something tactile in order to not feel alone. She needed someone to tell her everything would be okay; just one white lie and a warm body to hold onto in order to forget about everything that was happening.

There was no hiding the broken wrist from his father so he didn’t even try. After he had left Derek’s loft and dropped Malia home, he went to the Sheriff’s Station. It took him a few minutes alone in the dark silence of his Jeep to figure out how exactly he was going to explain everything to his father without him wanting to shoot him right there in the confines of the station but eventually he settled on the soft version of the truth. Stiles wasn’t about to explain the Necromancer or the banshee connection or the almost-torture of Lydia at the hands of a steroid-abusing goon to his father; that he would save for later, when he’d had a drink or two and wasn’t wielding a gun that could be used to go after the people responsible for the whole mess.

Stiles took a deep breath, calming himself, before climbing out of the Jeep and walking inside. He waved with his good hand to the deputy behind the reception desk in lieu of his usual pleasantry. There was only one person who he needed to talk to at the moment and there was no delaying the inevitable conversation that he needed to have with his father. If anyone else noticed his bandaged hand and told his father before him that would only make this whole situation worse.

His father was sitting behind his desk, reading a case file, when Stiles finally found the nerve to actually turn the doorknob he had in his hand. When he first looked up from the file, his usual smile was plastered on his face as his mouth began to open; Stiles assumed he was about to make a joke about Stiles baby-ing him by making sure he didn’t forget dinner when he was at work. That all disappeared when his eyes wandered to the bright white bandage that his son was wearing. Stiles didn’t think he had ever seen his father move that quickly. One second he was sitting in his chair, the next he was in front of Stiles and inspecting him for any other sign of injury; the worry on his face pained Stiles and only made him feel worse.

“Dad, I’m fine,” he said, backing away from his father to lean against the door.

“What the hell happened to your hand? Why didn’t the hospital call me?”

Stiles glanced down at his feet, unable to stop the nausea he was feeling. “Because I was in Mexico.”

There was silence in the room and some shuffling but Stiles couldn’t look away from his feet. He couldn’t stand to see his father’s expression. Stiles had promised him that he would be more careful after the Deadpool and Kate Argent but no matter how hard he tried, Stiles always managed to find a way to get himself in trouble. This incident just happened to the unintentional result of an intentional action.

“MEXICO?!”

Stiles’ head whipped up at the shout. His father was leaning against his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose, as he shook his head. Turning his head slightly to look through the door into the rest of the station, it was abundantly clear to Stiles that every person in the station had heard his father.

“I can’t believe you lied to me... _again_ ,” his father continued. The look in his father’s eyes broke his heart. He was tired, completely done with Stiles’ antics and wishing that Claudia was still here because maybe she would understand their son better than he did; that was what Stiles saw when his father’s eyes met his own. “Don’t even try to say sorry, Stiles, because I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear you lie to my face again. I just hope that whatever the reason you went to Mexico was worth breaking my trust. Was it?”

“No,” Stiles replied, shaking his head while a sigh. “Going to Mexico wasn’t worth it. But breaking my wrist was.”

His father wanted to know exactly why but instead he rolled his eyes and grabbed his jacket from its usual hanging place. “We’re going to the hospital. I want to know exactly what is wrong with your wrist.”

Stiles turned and followed his father out of the station. He was about to say something when his father held up his hand; he didn’t even need to turn around and look at his son to know when he was about to open his mouth. The Sheriff stopped walking, stepped back and placed his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, squeezing it slightly. “Stiles, the only thing I want to hear coming out of your mouth is the truth from here on out. So, _I’m_ going to drive especially slowly to the hospital and _you_ are going to tell me exactly what happened. Starting from the moment you looked me in the eyes and told me you were driving with Scott and Lydia to visit her father and look at Stanford as a possible college choice.”

“Okay,” Stiles said as he removed himself from his father’s hand and pushed the Sheriff’s Station doors open, letting in a gust of humid air. “So, we were sitting in Derek’s loft...”

The retelling didn’t take nearly as long as Stiles assumed it would. He told his father the main points in as much detail as he could but there were some things he left out. He couldn’t talk to his father about the entire conversation with Lydia. Stiles couldn’t talk to anyone about that conversation, not even his best friend. He knew if he did, it would cast doubt on his relationship with Malia. Both his father and Scott had questioned the relationship at first. Both had asked Stiles about Lydia but he had shrugged that off, explaining he thought of Lydia as just a close friend. Neither of them believed him though; they didn’t say the words aloud but they were thinking it, Stiles could see it all over their faces.

His father parked the car as Stiles reached the conclusion of the story. He explained about Scott and Chris’ rescue as they walked from the parking lot to the main entrance and told his father about finding Lydia as they filled out the paperwork.

“Is she okay?” were the first words out of his father’s mouth once Stiles concluded his retelling.

“She will be.”

His father nodded before setting the paperwork down on the table beside him. “Is her mom back from the substitute teaching job?”

“Not yet,” Stiles replied. “Lydia said she’ll be back sometime next week.”

There was a brief pause as his father brooded over something. With a smile, he motioned to the phone Stiles was fiddling around with in his hand. “Call her and tell her come stay with us. No one should be alone after that. I’m going to go talk to Melissa.”

As his father rose from the chair, Stiles rolled his eyes and laughed. “Dad, just remember, asking a woman if it hurt when she fell from Heaven is no longer an appropriate pick-up line. Unless you’re being ironic, which I don’t think you’re actually capable of being.”

His father only shook his head and continued to walk over to the nurse’s station with Stiles’ paperwork in hand. Stiles smirked and inched down the seat. His fingers moved across the screen, typing out Lydia’s number. Her contact photo had been taken without her knowledge. She had been in the middle of a conversation with Allison and Scott about something that Stiles couldn’t even remember. So many of their conversations focused on the supernatural mess that was their lives that it was rare to have a conversation about something _normal_. In the moment he had taken the photo, the four of them were talking about something normal and each of them had been laughing. It was such a normal teenage moment that for a moment, they had forgotten how screwed up their lives were. That was when Stiles had taken the photo; that was the memory that Stiles wanted to cherish. The entire photo featured Scott and Allison as well but Lydia was the main focus in his point of view.

She was always his main focus.

At least until he indirectly got her best friend killed. When that happened, Stiles couldn’t bear to be around her for long periods of time. He couldn’t look into those eyes and not fall apart. He had no idea how Scott could stand to be around him after Allison but eventually they found their old rhythm and were back to doing all their favorite past-times, including but not limited to kidnapping a freshman and hiding him in Scott’s bathtub and finally watching Star Wars. They only made it through the first prequel due to Scott falling asleep halfway through Stiles’ thoroughly researched and genius analyses of certain parts of the film.

But Lydia?

He couldn't stand to be around her for long periods of time. Not after hurting her the way he did.

The only time he found himself needing to be around her was when the Deadpool emerged. It wasn’t simply because she was the smartest person he knew. He needed her to be safe. He needed her to stay.

“Stiles?” Lydia’s voice cut through his thoughts and brought a smile to his face.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, straightening his posture.

He could practically see her rolling her eyes. “I know, you were the one who called.”

He laughed. His bandaged hand moved up to rub the back of his neck nervously before he winced, remembering the break. “Are you at home?”

“No,” Lydia replied in a hesitant and confused tone. “I’m at Derek’s.”

Not what Stiles was expecting. While she had been there when he and Malia had left, he had assumed she would get a lift home from Deaton. It wasn’t like she and Derek were great friends. Then again, he didn’t think that Isaac and Lydia were friends and he was continuously being proven wrong whenever he glanced over at her and saw Isaac standing a little too close to her like an annoying, protective puppy dog.

“Why?” It came out harsher than he intended it to but he shrugged it off.

“I’m sleeping here until my mom gets home.”

Yet another thing that Stiles was not expecting. His eyes drifted to Melissa and his father sharing a soft laugh in spite of the circumstances. It was a nice sight. It made Stiles wish the relationships in his life were as easy as theirs; they were friends first, they lost people, they had trouble raising their sons at times but they continued to persevere no matter the situation.

“Stiles, are you okay? What’s wrong?” He could hear the fear creeping into her voice which made him close his eyes, hating himself for worrying her so soon after what happened.

He plastered a smile on his face even though he knew she couldn’t see him. “I’m fine. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A sigh of relief echoed through the phone. “I’ll see you at school.”

Before he could reply, the call disconnected and he was met with a silence that seemed like the audial synonym for rejection. He looked at his phone’s screen which was void of any indication that there had been a phone conversation just seconds earlier. There was no picture of Lydia or ticking time; there was just a start screen mocking him.

_You have a girlfriend._

“I have a girlfriend,” he repeated under his breath, his hand gently tapping the top of his phone against his chin.

He had a girlfriend. He couldn’t get annoyed by one of his friends choosing to stay with two werewolves as opposed to a frantic seventeen year old and a Sheriff with high cholesterol.

He _wouldn’t._

But he did.

And continued to be throughout his examination.

Even as he sat in his father’s car, slightly strung out on the pain medication the doctor had given him, his mind wandered to her. Her and her strawberry blond hair. And the way her nose crinkled when she was stuck on something. And the way her voice trembled just slightly when she said Allison’s name. And the look on her face when he found her at the hands of that guard less than 24 hours ago.

He squeezed his eyes shut trying to get rid of that image. It was like when he had been too late to save her from Peter; to him that was one of the worst moments in his life. Watching her stand there one second and fall to the ground the next, bloodied and barely breathing, while Peter knelt over her body with Lydia’s blood slowly drying on his chin. His heart had been in his throat as he tried to calm himself and give Peter the answers he wanted but all he could think about was Lydia. Lydia, and the way Peter’s nail trailing along her cheek, and the way her breath came out uneven and barely audible. He had been terrified before – being best friends with a new werewolf having difficulty staying in control while also being hunted by an alpha werewolf were not exactly what highlights in his life – but there was something different about that moment. That moment when Stiles thought he would lose another person who he loved. He had physically been there when he lost his mom, and the thought of physically being there when he lost Lydia... That was when he realized he would lose his mind if she died.

But that was the life they lived now. They weren’t normal. They were hunters, werewolves, banshees and previously possessed by demonic entities. They were always in danger even if they weren’t aware of it. There was always something lurking in the shadows waiting to destroy them.

_So it goes._

He vaguely registered his father helping him into the house and to his room. His mind became somewhat clearer when his head hit the pillow. Stiles’ eyes opened slightly as he heard his father begin to exit the room. “Dad?”

“Yeah, kid?”

The words tumbled out of Stiles’ mouth before he could think about them. “Do you like Malia?”

His father leaned against the doorframe and looked at Stiles, folding his arms in the process. “Yeah, I do.”

“That’s good,” he said, rolling on his side and trying to focus his eyes on his father. “I don’t.”

“What?”

It was like verbal vomit. Everything he had thought about since Allison’s death and the Deadpool was threatening to fall out of his mouth as his gaze locked on his father. But first he shook his head and tried to sit up. He awkwardly caught himself when he fell back down.

“I want to. I really do but... I don’t like her the way she likes me,” Stiles sighed with a rub of his eyes. “It’s like, every time I’m around her, I feel more like a teacher and a babysitter than a boyfriend.”

His father walked over to him and put his hand on his shoulder. The exhaustion he was feeling was evident on his face but he pushed through it, trying to look as sympathetic and caring as he could. “Stiles, you need to sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

Stiles pulled the blanket over his chest. “She reminds me of Mom.”

That made his father still. His eyes stayed on his son. He tried to compare what he had seen of Malia and who he knew Claudia was. So all he could let out was; “How?”

“Her genius,” Stiles said with a smile, which confused his father. “Her smile. The way she can make me feel better with just one look. Lydia’s good at that, even when she doesn’t like me. She can make anyone believe in themselves except herself. Sometimes I don’t think she sees what I do.”

His father sighed. As he began to open his mouth to respond, he heard the soft snores coming from his son. He left the room, turning off the light as he did, and decided not to question the information he had just been given by his son. He knew there would be a moment when Stiles would say similar things while sober so he would wait until then to give his son advice about it. He couldn’t bring something up that his son wouldn’t even remember the next day.

He _could_ but he wouldn’t.

* * *

Malia stayed by his side the entire day, completely ignoring everything he had taught her on personal space and privacy. Even when he walked into the bathroom or the locker room, she would stand outside and say whatever entered her mind as she waited for him. It became somewhat annoying to Stiles. Especially when he had first attempted to have a secretive conversation with Scott about Lydia’s whereabouts by the Jeep before school began.

Malia being a werecoyote meant that she could see, hear and even smell emotions that Stiles didn’t want her to know about. She had a tendency to be impulsive and jealous, which were two traits that weren’t good to be on the receiving end of. After everything that happened with Brunski, Malia had questioned him about what he smelled like. Apparently the fear of losing Lydia had a particularly bitter smell. He had told her that it was just because Lydia was one of his closest friends. He had failed to mention the important footnote of their relationship, which was that he had had a crush on her since the third grade and that he had begun to fall in love with her once he saw the Lydia Martin behind the mask. But it had to be becoming apparent to Malia. That much he could tell from the expression on her face whenever he asked about Lydia that day.

He could see her brow furrow out of the corner of his eye when he brought up the question yet again to Scott. “Have you heard from Lydia today?”

“No, but Kira did,” Scott replied before taking a bite of his burger.

“Where is Kira?” Malia asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

“She’s at home.”

Stiles nodded his head, waiting for their conversation about Kira to end. He was glad that Kira was okay after everything that happened but from what he had gathered when they had been at Derek’s, she and Isaac had only been locked up. They hadn’t been subjected to anything like they had in the past; they had only sat in a metallic room for however many hours it had been with each other’s company. Whereas he and Lydia had been subject to different experiences. He had no idea what had happened after Lydia had been taken; she wouldn’t tell him. All he knew was the expression on her face when he burst through the doors and the painful reaction to her banshee scream. He just needed to know that she was okay.

Isaac sat down beside Scott just as Malia turned to Stiles with a smile. “Do you want to come with me to see the Algebra teacher?”

“No,” Stiles retorted before adjusting himself. He smiled sweetly back at her, placing a hand on hers. “I think that’s something you have to do on your own. Just come find me after.”

Clearly annoyed by the response, Malia excused herself from the table, angrily hoisting her bag over her shoulder and hitting Stiles’ shoulder in the process. It was only when he knew that she was out of hearing range that he took a break from stuffing his face to glance at the two werewolves in front of him. Or more importantly, the werewolf who was currently sharing Casa de Derek with Lydia.

“Did Lydia come to school today?” Stiles asked. All of his attention was pointed towards Isaac, who was surprised and drawn out of the conversation he had started with Scott.

“I have no idea,” Isaac replied with a shrug of his shoulder. “She ran out of the loft this morning.”

Scott turned to him. “Why?”

“This may shock you two but Lydia and I don’t stay awake all night talking about our feelings and braiding each other’s hair. I have no idea where she went.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and indignantly poked at his food. “Why the hell is she even staying with you two? We may be a pack but I didn’t think Lydia and Derek even liked each other.”

“She probably just feels safe there because they’re sleeping together,” Isaac answered, though it was clear by the way he dropped both his fork and his jaw that he hadn’t intended the sentence to leave his brain.

Both Scott and Stiles’ eyes widened as they processed the information they had just been given. There were a million thoughts that were running through Stiles’ head but he couldn’t choose a particular one to stay focused on. His head wanted to hit the table top like Isaac’s had done. That was ignored when he saw familiar strawberry blond locks enter the school building.

“I’ll be right back,” Stiles announced to the table, even though both Scott and Isaac seemed to be in their own worlds and oblivious to him.

He picked up his bag and tried to run after Lydia in a way that couldn’t be misconstrued as anything other than one friend wanting to talk to another about something trivial like homework. That failed when he burst through the double doors into the near empty hallway and broke the silence, resulting in Lydia glancing from her locker to the cause of the noise. Her face changed from indifference to confusion as he walked up to her.

“Are you looking for someone, Stiles?” Lydia queried with a raised eyebrow. When he leaned against the locker next to hers, her attention moved back to her retrieving books from her locker.

He wanted to ask her about Derek. Actually he was desperate to ask her about Derek and scratch the itch that had emerged once the words left Isaac’s mouth. Instead, he nodded his head. “Yeah, I’ve been looking for you. I’ve been looking for you _all day_.”

She gave him her patented ‘ _what the hell _’__ look and shut her locker. “Why?”

“I was worried about you.”

A smile wiped away her previous expression, bringing with it a softer, rarely seen look of Lydia’s. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie which each member of the pack knew well. The Necromancer had an effect on Lydia that was apparent and still somewhat unexplained. All the pack knew was that with each passing day, Lydia seemed to look worse. Her skin was pale, the bags under her eyes were darker, she seemed to zone out during nearly every conversation she was in and she barely ate. The Necromancer was killing her and they had no idea how to stop it.

“Where were you?”

“I slept through my alarm. Derek and Isaac didn’t think to wake me up.”

It wasn’t as if Lydia had never lied to him before but there was something about this instance that got under his skin. He nodded his head again, as if taking accepting her statement, before following her when she began to walk away from her locker.

“That’s funny, seeing as how Isaac said that he saw you run out the loft. Were you sleep-walking?”

Lydia rolled her eyes but didn’t glance over at him or stop her stride. “Okay, fine. I had errands this morning. Why do you care?”

Stiles wildly gesticulated with his arms attempting to express every bit of frustration he felt toward her at that moment. “Because I’m your best friend and there’s a crazy, zombie-obsessed whack-job loose in Beacon Hills. You don’t think that warrants caring?”

They walked up the stairs to the next level of the school. It was clear that Lydia was trying to get rid of him but that wasn’t working. Instead she let out a deep sigh and shook her head. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have the equivalent of vocal GPS. All I have to do is scream and every supernatural creature in this town knows where I am.”

“Then Derek can ride in on his white horse and save you?” Stiles let out bitterly and unintentionally.

They exited onto the exterior of the second level, walking past and ignoring the other students at their lockers. Stiles thought back to their interaction during the Darach situation where he had been trying to convince her that he was right about the human sacrificing; they were almost in the exact same walking position that they had been during that argument.

Lydia glanced over at him with a look of indifference on her face but there was something underneath it. “I don’t really think Derek’s the knight-in-shining-armor type.”

“Right,” he agreed, scratching the back of his neck. “Because you only sleep with the emotionally-damaged, brooding werewolf types.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. They were harsh and floated in the air between them like acidic pieces of dust, barely visible yet clearly evident. Lydia stopped where she stood and turned to him. It was clear she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Or didn’t want to. Not until she knew that the words she chose would give her the control in the conversation.

“That is none of your business, Stiles,” Lydia let out after a moment. Her voice cracked, almost like she was on the verge of tears, but nothing about her general appearance stated that.

Even so, Stiles still felt a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach.

A pang that he stupidly ignored. “I’m your best friend. Of course it’s my business.”

The hollow laugh she let out cut into him. As did the look she began to give him. “My ‘ _best friend_ ’? You are not my best friend, Stiles. You’re not even my closest friend. Actually, you’re the _reason_ that I don’t have a best friend anymore. Allison is _dead_ and there are plaques and memorials all over the school for her. People who barely knew her signed their condolences on a scrap of cardboard or a card in a bouquet of flowers. They sent their ‘ _deepest regrets_ ’ to us in the form of baked goods and bouquets. But none of them knew how she died. None of them could grieve with me and truly understand how I felt. I needed _you_. I needed Scott. I needed _someone_ from our pack to be there with me but you all just disappeared. You cannot go around throwing the term ‘ _best friend _’__ into our conversation and actually expect for it to mean something. You have barely been there for me the past six months, Stiles. Getting almost killed by Brunski together and everything that’s happened recently are the only moments I’ve been close to you in six months. So you have no right to make any sort of comment about who I choose to be close to.”

They stared at each other. Each second that passed felt like an eternity. He could barely breathe as a result of her words; it was almost like the start of a panic attack. Her eyes were watery but refused to release any tears. There were so many things that Stiles wanted to respond with. The majority were mostly just apologies about giving her space when it was clearly the opposite of what she wanted but that wasn’t what came out. What came out was petty and immature. What came out sounded so alien to him that he wasn’t even sure if they were his own words.

“Well I’m sure having Derek between your sheets satisfied any needs Scott and I couldn’t fulfil.”

But they were.

Each second that passed didn’t only feel like an eternity but felt so agonizing. Stiles wanted to take them back. He wanted to not be responsible for the look on her face. When she shut her eyes, he prepared for the worst. He thought a violent reaction was upon him, one that he wouldn’t try to stop. He deserved a slap. He deserved anything that she threw at him.

“Go to hell, Stiles.” It wasn’t the words themselves but the tone they were spoken in. The utter defeat and un-Lydia Martin tone cut through him and left him wordless.

It was only after she had left that he was able to feel anything other than nauseous over his own words. But by then, there were groups of students rushing past him to get to class and she was gone from his line of sight. He tried to call her and sent multiple messages apologizing but they were both met with silence.

* * *

Driving home had been the initial intention when she pressed her foot down on the accelerator, but her hands had other ideas. Derek had a right to know that the rest of the pack were now aware of their bed-buddies status. Lydia could almost imagine the next pack meeting while she drove. Stiles would make sarcastic remarks, Scott would try to understand the situation, Isaac would sit in the corner and feign disinterest while Kira sat there awkwardly and Malia tried to understand why it was such a big thing. It might have been easier just to be honest from the start instead of letting it come out from somebody else.

Lydia parked in front of his building. There was no indication that he was there but after weighing the decision to wait in the loft or drive home, she exited her car and walked into the building. In her mind, she justified waiting in the loft by wanting to tell him in person rather than over the phone but Lydia just didn’t want to be alone. However, the sporadic appearances of her best friend next to her meant she was never truly alone. Not when those appearances came with conversations including cryptic messages and the overwhelming feeling that Lydia was losing her mind at the hands of the Necromancer. But Lydia needed someone or something tactile in order to not feel alone. She needed someone to tell her everything would be okay; just one white lie and a warm body to hold onto in order to forget about everything that was happening.

Everything she had been thinking about disappeared when she slid open the door to the loft.

Her body felt cold. Her heart felt like it was in her throat. She saw the confusion on Allison’s face out of the corner of her eye but Lydia couldn’t speak. All she could do was hear something. It was like white noise gradually increasing in volume.

She took careful steps into the loft, stopping when she was standing in the middle of the room. Her eyes darted around. There was nothing in plain view that made the noise understandable.

“What’s wrong?” Allison’s voice was barely audible through the sound that was invading her ears.

Lydia took a deep breath and closed her eyes in an attempt to calm herself. That was when she heard past it. It wasn’t white noise but what sounded like a hundred voices trying to communicate with her at the same time. Each voice overlapped with the other while she tried to understand what they wanted from her.

“ _Can you hear them, Lydia? Can you hear how they rely on you _?”__ The voice that had tormented her in the school hallway left chills running down her spine. It cut through the other voices in a way that Allison hadn’t been able to.

Her eyes refused to open. She refused to find herself in a similar position as she had in that hallway. She refused to find herself alone again at the hands of the... _monster_ that she was somehow linked to.

“ _They need you. I need you. And you need me._ ” The voice was right beside her ear. It made her let out a shaky breath.

The voices that were trying to communicate with her continued increasing in volume, which left her feeling like she was suffocating. Her body still felt cold. She had no idea how her legs were still holding her up because her limbs felt numb.

“ _You know what you need to do. You know how to stop the feeling _,”__ the voice said, cutting through other voices who were loudly crying for her help _ _. “ _Scream, Lydia._ ”__

And she did.

Her eyes shot open as she released a high-pitched screech. Every other voice that had been plaguing her vanished. There was no longer any sign of Allison near her. It was just Lydia, _alone_ , and her scream, which was quickly replacing the oxygen that had once been in the loft. The shattering of the windows was barely perceptible, it was only the sudden gush of wind that hit the bare skin of her legs that made her aware of the broken windows.

Then she stopped.

And her world went dark as her legs finally stopped holding up.

* * *

Deaton had never told them what he planned to do with Peter after Derek had left him at the Animal Clinic. It was only after Derek’s insistence that Peter could be a possible suspect in what was happening that Deaton finally told him where he could be found. That was how Derek found himself walking down the Eichen House sub-level with a female doctor whose name he couldn’t remember at that moment.

His eyes surveyed the cells that were littered along the hallway. There were supernatural creatures that Derek had never seen outside of the pages of the bestiary. He had to wonder whether it was just homicidal tendencies which led to incarceration in these cells or something more. He had walked past caged supernatural creatures that had been labelled docile in the pages of the Argent bestiary. There was a gnawing feeling in the back of his mind that this level of Eichen House wasn’t just designed for the protection of the civilians of Beacon Hills.

The female doctor turned to him, one hand on the doorknob. “This is his room. I can give you five minutes. We don’t want to stimulate your uncle too much after the... Deaton can explain that.”

Derek, confused by her words, pushed past and into the room. He expected to see Peter leaning up against a wall with his perpetually smug expression and be greeted by a one-liner that would make Derek roll his eyes and/or fight back the urge to punch Peter. Instead what Derek saw reminded him of those few occurrences when he would visit Peter at the Beacons Crossing Home. The soulless eyes gazing into the distance and the face devoid of emotion; it was a completely different Peter Hale.

Which made Derek suspicious.

Peter had done this before. He had acted like the comatose victim while terrorising Beacon Hills under the guise of the Alpha. Granted Beacons Crossing Home was easier to leave than Eichen House, but there was nothing to suggest that it wasn’t a pretence.

Derek watched his uncle from the door for a minute, surveying him and the situation, before finally taking a seat on the bed and turning his uncle’s chair violently to face him.

“What do you know about necromancy?”

The question was met with silence.

Derek took a deep breath before shaking his head. “Peter, you have to tell me what you know.”

Again there was silence.

Derek groaned, pushing himself off the bed, and walked back over to the door. He didn’t know why he had thought it would work. Deaton had explained to him that something had happened to Peter at Eichen House... but it was _Peter_.

Just as he turned back to face his uncle, he heard it. A sound that pierced through him and made him involuntarily stumble backwards slightly. His eyes widened as he realized just who was making that sound. His hand went to the doorknob to leave.

“Well, well, well... it sounds like our little banshee’s in trouble.” Peter’s arrogant tone filled the place of Lydia’s scream.

His gaze went back to his uncle, who was now sitting upright and cognizant. It was almost as if the scream had awakened him.

Derek knew he should walk out of the room and run to Lydia but there were other more pressing issues.

His hand left the doorknob. “What do you know, Peter?”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Peter replied as he stood up, kicking away the chair he had previously been sitting in. “ _If_ you do what I want.”

There weren’t many moments when he had been plagued with self-doubt but as he stood there, about to make a deal with the devil, Derek didn’t think he had ever been more uncertain in his life.

Even so, he shrugged his shoulder and acted nonchalant. “What do you want?”

* * *

Everything had happened so quickly. One second he had been telling Scott about his encounter with Lydia and how crappy he felt about he had acted, and the next, Stiles was kneeling beside his distressed brother, trying to understand what was happening. Only one word – “ _Lydia_ ” – left his best friend’s lips but it was enough to make Stiles feel physically ill.

Once Scott was able to stand, he and Stiles ran for the Jeep, completely ignoring the fact that they had Economics. Isaac was waiting for them with his phone to his ear with an expression of frustration.

“Lydia’s not answering her phone,” was all he said as he climbed into the back of the Jeep.

Isaac continued to redial Lydia’s number, only to be greeted by her voicemail, as Stiles drove. Scott told him to go toward Derek’s loft. It was the last place Stiles wanted to go; his mind had been playing scenario after scenario of Lydia and Derek in that loft since she had walked away from him. But the idea that there was something wrong with Lydia outweighed his other feelings.

The physically ill feeling was unrelenting as he drove the streets of Beacon Hills. If it weren’t for the fact that he was the Sheriff’s son, he would have run every red-light and every stop sign between Beacon Hills High and the loft.

Before the Jeep had come to a complete stop in front of the building that housed the loft, Scott and Isaac had jumped out. They ran through the entrance and up the stairs before Stiles had even managed to get his seatbelt off. As he tried to catch up with the other two, he saw her parked car. For some reason it made his feet move faster up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

He reached Derek’s level and began to run toward the door but was stopped by Isaac. The look on his face was unlike the expressions Isaac usually wore. It was as if he was trying not to look alarmed and unsettled. He was failing but he still continued to try for Stiles’ benefit. “Go back to the Jeep, Stiles.”

Stiles pushed past him.

Then everything that had been happening so quickly slowed down.

He reached the open door and saw her laying there.

He saw his best friend pick up her seemingly lifeless body like it was nothing.

He saw the broken look in his best friend’s eyes as Scott looked from Lydia to Stiles.

He saw the wreckage of the loft around them; the shattered glass, the turned over furniture, everything that indicated that something serious had happened. Something that had left her like... _that_.

Isaac pulled him away from the door and repeatedly told him they needed to go but Stiles’ attention never left the frail, motionless body of Lydia Martin in Scott’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how I felt about this chapter. There were some parts I really liked but I'm not sure. I just wanted to post it. Anyway did you guys enjoy the chapter? I promise there won't be a long wait for the next one.
> 
> If you have any questions or comments, leave me a comment or find me [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/ask).


	9. fractured moonlight on the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it were any other situation, Stiles would comment about how badass his best friend looked. If it were any other person being carried into the hospital in a fireman hold, Stiles would say something. He was sure to other people it looked dramatic – it sure _felt_ dramatic – as Scott walked through the hospital with the barely-breathing, limp body in his embrace. But from behind his best friend, all he could see were the tresses of strawberry blond hair hanging over the side of his best friend’s left arm and the way they began to dance when a breeze from the hospital’s air-conditioner hit them. Stiles couldn’t hear what was being said by Scott or the nurses at the desk, all he could hear were the last words she said to him: _"Go to hell, Stiles"_.

If it were any other situation, Stiles would comment about how badass his best friend looked. If it were any other person being carried into the hospital in a fireman hold, Stiles would say something. He was sure to other people it looked dramatic – it sure _felt_ dramatic – as Scott walked through the hospital with the barely-breathing, limp body in his embrace. But from behind his best friend, all he could see were the tresses of strawberry blond hair hanging over the side of his best friend’s left arm and the way they began to dance when a breeze from the hospital’s air-conditioner hit them. Stiles couldn’t hear what was being said by Scott or the nurses at the desk, all he could hear were the last words she said to him: _"Go to hell, Stiles"_.

He watched as doctors pried Lydia from Scott’s arms and placed her on a gurney. His legs moved forward, following the gurney, before he could comprehend his actions. His eyes never left her. It was only when a familiar, comforting hand was placed on his chest in an effort to stop him that Stiles was able to focus on something other than her. When the gurney Lydia was on rounded the corner, he lost her and his attention moved to the person whose hand was on his chest. Melissa was smiling at him, in an affectionate, motherly way, but it had no effect on him. Not like it usually did. He gave her a small smile in return even though they both knew it was insincere.

When he sat down beside Scott and Isaac on the uncomfortable hospital chairs, he couldn’t look either in the eye. He put his head in his hands and did something he hadn’t done since his mother had been in the hospital; he prayed. Stiles wasn’t religious but he found himself turning to some higher power whenever things became rough in their lives. Usually it was just something brief, a passing prayer of hope that they would get through whatever problem they were in. He never sat down and actually _prayed_. Not since his mother. After everything they had been through, finding out that the fictional supernatural creatures he had once read about were actually not fictional made it hard for him to believe in one wholly holy something. It opened up pages and pages of deities; so Stiles made it an open-ended prayer. He just needed someone to hear him and make sure that she was okay.

It wasn’t long before there were deputies asking them questions about what happened. The three hadn’t exactly had time to figure out a believable lie so they went with a half-truth; that they had found her like that near her car and raced to the hospital. What was the point in bringing up things like banshees, werewolves and necromancy to a group of unknowing civilians?

Eventually the deputies dispersed and the rest of the pack turned up. Deaton walked away to discuss everything with Melissa while Malia and Kira sat beside Stiles and Scott, taking their hands and offering words of support. The pack was close but Stiles, Scott and Lydia were the remaining three from the beginning. If they lost her... He wouldn’t think about it. He _couldn’t_ think about it. There was nothing he wanted to think about less than losing Lydia.

Everything passed by him like a blur. He watched as doctors and nurses came on shifts and off. He watched the pack move from seating positions to standing. He watched Malia and Kira wave goodbye after getting calls from their parents to come home. Isaac disappeared at one point; Stiles wasn’t sure how long he had been gone but he didn’t return. He watched as Scott fell asleep in the seat next to him, unable to continue propping himself up on his hand and relying on Stiles’ shoulder for support instead.

Every so often his attention would move up to the clock. His eyes followed the second hand as it moved around. They had been sitting in the waiting room for almost five hours. Five hours with no information on how she was.

He and Scott weren’t family. Not in the way in counted to the hospital. But Melissa had told them she would give them any information when there was any to give. She had even taken a second shift in order to get the information. Though Stiles assumed she would probably be sitting beside her son and waiting anyway if she clocked out.

Each time his eyes began to flutter shut, he heard her words. He heard the tone of her words and saw the look in her eyes as she said them. Then his mind was filled with the image of her laying there on the floor. It was at that moment that he would put his head back in his hands and try to remove the image by rubbing his eyes as hard as he could without causing damage.

It didn’t work.

He was sure that he would be haunted by that image for the rest of his life. It was like the image of his mother in her hospital bed or the image of Lydia, bloodied and insentient, falling on the lacrosse field. It was like the image of his best friend walk away from him at the hospital with Deucalion or the image of Jennifer taking his father while Stiles stood there unable to do anything.

He shook his head, his hands moving to grip the back of his neck, as his leg bounced nervously on the hospital floor.

He needed to know something.

He needed to know anything, even if it was as simple as her heart rate.

“Stiles, I need your help.” Deaton’s words were the first that cut through the white noise in his head.

Stiles begrudgingly gazed from the floor to Deaton, who was standing in front of him, with an emotionless expression. There was nothing about his general appearance that would suggest something was wrong. Nothing that would suggest someone he was close to was currently in hospital unconscious with an unknown diagnosis. He was just _Deaton_.

“No.” Stiles’ throat was scratchy, his voice was hoarse but he couldn’t leave his seat. He kept thinking that if he left to go get a drink of water, Melissa would walk over to them with information on Lydia. He needed to be there for that.

“Stiles, I--”

“I said _no_ ,” he said, unwavering as he met Deaton’s eyes.

Deaton shook his head softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This could help Lydia.”

Stiles’ leg began bouncing a little faster at the statement. His eyes travelled to the double doors that she had been pushed through.

He wanted to help her. There was nothing he wanted more at that moment. He would do anything in order for her to wake up.

But he couldn’t leave the hospital. Not until he knew that she was okay.

His father hadn’t been there when Claudia had passed away. He hadn’t been able to say something even when his mother had whispered his name, wanting nothing more than to hold her husband’s hand on last time. She had been barely conscious yet she still wanted the man she loved to be there. Stiles may not have been the man Lydia loved or the person she classified as her best friend but he would be there no matter what.

“I’m not leaving her alone. When she wakes up--”

“If she wakes up,” Deaton cut in. Stiles gaze turned into a glare as his attention moved back to the older man. “Stiles, there are more pressing issues right now.”

“No,” he snarled, pushing himself out of his chair and leaving Scott to fall awkwardly on to the now empty chair. Stiles kept his glare intact while barely managing to keep himself from yelling in response to the comment. “No, there is _nothing_ more pressing right now than Lydia.”

Scott scrambled to his feet and pulled Stiles away. Deaton didn’t even look fazed by the confrontation but the surrounding nurses and patients had slowed down to try and understand exactly what was happening in front of them.

Melissa was watching from a room further down the hallway. She and Stiles made eye contact as Scott was tugging him off to the side; all she could offer her pseudo-son was a doting smile which she knew he couldn’t return. Once the boys had left her line of sight, her eyes drifted back to Deaton. She knew she should trust him – he had proven his trust and loyalty to her son and his friends multiple times in the past – but when yet another one of the people closest to Scott and Stiles seemed to be close to death, Melissa couldn’t stop herself from wondering whether or not Deaton’s approach to the situation was the right one.

He motioned for her to follow him but before she could unenthusiastically comply, one of her colleagues tapped on her shoulder. The action broke her from her thoughts and startled her but she kept herself composed as he began to tell her the news she had been waiting for that entire evening.

There was no obvious, medical reason for Lydia’s unconscious state. Nothing they could diagnose and treat. There had been no change in her state but she was able to breathe on her own again.

It was the news Melissa knew would ease some of the sorrow afflicting her two boys. At least for that moment.

* * *

Isaac slowly climbed the stairs. His mind was filled with an overabundance of thoughts about Lydia and Allison that he hadn’t been able to get rid of. He had sat in the waiting room with Scott’s pack and done just what the room was designed for; he had waited. He had waited for an update that would rid him of the thoughts clouding his mind but nothing came. Eventually he had to excuse himself. Isaac had walked the entire way back to Derek’s loft in an effort to clear his head; it didn’t work.

When he saw the half open loft door, survival instincts kicked in. He shifted without having to even think about it. Isaac raced toward the loft, prepared to face whatever it was that had been affecting Lydia so much. He opened the door further before skidding to a halt when he saw that the only person occupying the space was Derek.

Derek barely even acknowledged him. Instead, it seemed his interest was solely engrossed in the archive in front of him. Only when Isaac actually walked up beside him did Derek’s eyes move away from the pages.

“What, Isaac? I’m kind of busy.”

Isaac shook his head in disbelief. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ve been here,” Derek said, punctuating his words with one hand motioning around the room. “In case you haven’t noticed, my home is trashed.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Lydia’s in the hospital,” Isaac retorted.

Derek rolled his eyes before returning back to the page he was on. “Lydia’s going to be fine.”

It was the only thing Isaac could think to do to get the older werewolf’s attention. He pushed the book off the table only to be met with the pissed off glare of Derek Hale.

“Lydia will be fine,” he reiterated before walking over to sit down.

“You didn’t see her.”

Derek put his head in his hands, letting out a deep sigh. He had assumed there would be more time between arriving back from his visit at Eichen House and the first pack member appearing at his loft. He had assumed he would have time to find evidence corroborating everything Peter had said. It was that evidence Derek needed in order to feel like he hadn’t made a huge mistake. But with Isaac analysing his every micro expression and movement, there was no way he would be able to do that.

“Derek, we have to do something. We have to try,” Isaac continued. He was trying to find a leaning position that would help him stop fidgeting but he couldn’t. “She is just lying in that hospital bed and--”

“And I am trying!” Derek bellowed, looking up from the floor to meet Isaac’s gaze.

A protracted silence hung between them before the younger werewolf shook his head and pushed himself off the table to walk toward the door. “Well try harder, because if she dies--”

“If Lydia dies, the Necromancer will most likely be unstoppable,” a voice from the hallway interrupted.

Isaac stopped where he was. He knew the voice, which confused and alarmed him. He spun on his heels, his eyebrows raised with a questioning expression. Derek stood and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration just as Peter sauntered into the loft with a smirk on his face. He surveyed the loft before taking a seat on the couch with an over exaggerated sigh.

“Or did Derek fail to mention that?”

* * *

They needed loyalty cards for the hospital.

That was what Stiles first thought when he pulled a chair to sit next to Lydia’s bed. It was his attempt at lightening the mood in his own mind. It didn’t make him laugh or even weaken the emotionless expression that had been plastered on his face since his encounter with Deaton. Though if that did happen, Stiles was sure his eyes would water. Especially when looking at Lydia in that bed.

If they did have cards for the hospital, this visit would most likely be the free one. It seemed like every third week they were sitting in the waiting room or paying visit to a pack member or person of interest in the latest supernatural disaster to hit Beacon Hills.

He could feel Scott lingering behind him. Stiles didn’t need supernaturally enhanced senses to perceive Scott’s desire to say something. But he couldn’t turn his attention away from Lydia.

At least not until his chair was physically turned around so that Stiles’ gaze fell on Scott. It was just as he opened his mouth to respond that Scott said something that, in that moment, was the only thing that could make Stiles leave Lydia’s side.

“Peter’s at the loft.”

Stiles _ran_ to his Jeep once the words left his best friend’s mouth. Peter, who had once infiltrated Lydia’s mind in order to resurrect himself. Peter, who had been the original cause behind Lydia being hospitalised after Winter Formal. Peter, who time after time proved that the pack could not trust him. That Peter Hale was sitting in Derek’s loft and Stiles knew he had something to do with everything that had happened.

It took every morsel of his self-control to not keep his foot on the accelerator. Scott’s persistent gaze made it somewhat easier. There was no conversation as they drove either. Just Stiles’ attention to the rules of the road and Scott’s stare; each time Stiles pulled up to a stop sign, he would look over at his best friend, who failed to pretend like he was looking out the passenger window. If Stiles was that bad at acting with his father, the Sheriff would have added bars to the window and a lock to the outside of Stiles’ door. There would have been no sneaking out to find half a body with Scott or driving down to Mexico, any of the ties they went. Stiles wouldn’t be let out of the house without a police escort until he was forty.

When Stiles parked the Jeep, Scott’s hand reached out and grabbed his arm, still attached to the steering wheel.

“You can’t lose it like you did with Deaton,” Scott said in a comforting tone accompanied by a soft smile. He nodded to himself, like he had done something right, and climbed out of the Jeep.

Stiles’ brows furrowed and he followed his friend, carelessly slamming the driver side’s door. “Are you kidding me, Scott?”

Scott turned around as Stiles rounded the Jeep. “What?”

He had planned to bring it up in a different context. Then again, he hadn’t planned on Lydia being hospitalized. After the first incident at the Animal Clinic, Deaton had confided in Stiles about what would happen if Scott let his anger and grief over Allison rule his motivation and actions. Stiles had promised to observe Scott and make sure that he stayed in control; the last thing they needed was their true Alpha to transform into some demon wolf hybrid and terrorize Beacon Hills in commemoration of his deceased first love. But after Chris had pulled him aside before they left Mexico and explained to him what had happened prior to their rescue, Stiles knew that he couldn’t continue to be a passive observer of his best friend’s actions. With or without Lydia being in hospital and whether there was a Necromancer roaming the streets of Beacon Hills or not, Stiles couldn't lose his best friend. Consequently, Stiles had practiced the speech he would recite to Scott regarding anger management and how losing himself wouldn’t just hurt him but everyone around him.

In that moment however, Stiles couldn’t remember a single word of it. So he just went with the words that popped into his head. “I’m not the one whose anger issues could turn him into the next Peter Hale slash Deucalion slash Monster Wolf, Scott.”

“I’m fine, Stiles,” Scott replied, walking toward the entrance to the building only to be held back by Stiles’ hesitance.

“Are you? Or are you just saying that to end the conversation?”

“I’m saying it because we have more important things to worry about right now.”

And they did.

Or at the very least, they had problems that had a higher probability of being solved by simply entering Derek’s loft. Scott’s anger management issues were a larger problem that couldn’t be resolved through a heart to heart in the parking lot of Derek’s building; Stiles actually had no idea how they could be resolved. The only thing he knew was that they couldn’t keep avoiding the conversation regarding it. There was something in his best friend’s eyes that made Stiles apprehensive.

But Lydia was unconscious in Beacon Hills Memorial and the one person who may have a better insight into her mind and current state than Stiles was sitting on Derek’s couch. While Stiles was an avid observer of the mystifying Lydia Martin and had been since third grade, Peter Hale had an unsolicited all-access pass to her mind. Not to mention he had been missing in action since everything with Kate and the Tezcatlipoca.

As they ascended the staircase, Stiles began to feel nauseated. After glancing at Scott and the expression on his face, he knew he wasn’t alone in the feeling. There was something about walking up to talk to the devil of Beacon Hills that was sickening. Especially since it seemed like the best – and _only_ – option to help Lydia.

The two friends walked into an eerily silent loft. Isaac was standing near the shattered windows, Derek was leaning against a support beam and Peter was glancing between the two from his spot on the couch. It was only with Derek’s acknowledgement of the two new arrivals that his gaze reallocated.

“What do you know about Necromancy?” Stiles asked as he moved away from Scott.

“And hello to you too,” Peter retorted.

Derek rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. “Shut up and answer his question, Peter.”

He didn’t move his head to address Derek – Stiles’ eyes were locked on the sociopath on the couch – and instead simply raised an index finger in his general direction. “I don’t need your help.”

Derek raised his arms slightly in confusion. He looked to Isaac and Scott for help. Both were now standing by the window as onlookers to the confrontation. They were just waiting for the moment when Stiles needed their help but it was obvious that moment wasn’t going to happen. Scott raised his palm to his face while Isaac’s expression turned sheepish.

“They know about you and Lydia. I told them,” Isaac admitted with a small shrug. “ _Accidentally._ ”

The confusion stare Derek had been directing toward them morphed into a crossbreed of a glare and a _‘seriously?’_ look. The stare swiftly made Isaac more interested in the type of material used to make the window pane than anything else that was happening in the loft.

“You and Lydia?” Peter asked incredulously, resulting in everyone besides Isaac turning to glance in his direction. “Good job, Derek.”

“Shut up!” was the only response and was shouted unintentionally in unison by Derek and Stiles.

Peter raised his arms in self-defense before standing up and strolling toward the table. The archive that Isaac had pushed onto the floor was once again laying on the tabletop. “Since I see that you’ve all lost your sense of humor, I’ll just tell you what I know. That is, after all, the only reason why my darling nephew decided to both visit me in and release me from Eichen House.”

Derek avoided the gazes of the three teenagers, instead walking over to stand beside Peter. After some hesitation, the other three gathered around the table as well. Peter perused the pages of the archive until he found what he had been looking for.

“My father used to tell bedtime stories about Necromancy to me and Talia. Of course, we assumed that the entire deed was fictional. Until a pack of werewolves sauntered through town claiming that they held the gift of resurrection.”

“Let me guess, they gave you a few helpful pointers on how to bring yourself back from the dead in case your nephew decided to slash your throat out,” Stiles interjected. It was said with a straight face yet it made both Isaac and Scott silently snicker.

Peter scowled at Stiles before reluctantly bobbing his head. “They informed me of a few ways that they had heard about, yes. None of them had worked before.”

“Until Lydia,” Isaac interposed.

“Until Lydia; the hidden banshee in my own town. The moment I heard her scream outside the video rental store, I knew she was my plan B. Obviously I did some research and wasn’t incorrect but as we all know, I wasn’t.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “ _Yeah_... can we skip past the expected sycophantic egotism boost? I just honestly don’t know think we have enough time for accolades you’re obviously grasping for.”

“I knew this was a mistake,” Derek muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Fine,” Peter huffed. “I don’t think Lydia is the same as other banshees. There’s a uniqueness to her that I’ve never been able to place. But I believe that it’s the reason the Necromancer has become linked to her. Before you release whatever sarcastic remark your mind concocted, Stiles, I do have more to say. Understandably, I don’t want to be sent back to Eichen House so I’ll live up to the information I promised in return for my freedom.”

Peter traced his finger along a line on the page. “Banshees are heralds of death whereas Necromancers... they view themselves as the saviors of the dead. At least those that I’ve encountered and read about do. They possess an immense amount of power that could rival Jennifer Blake’s. If this Necromancer has also begun to sacrifice people in order to strengthen his hold over the dead and ensure a speedy ascension back into the land of living, we may not be able to stop him.”

“You said that if Lydia...” Isaac paused to glance up at Stiles, who was steely as he watched Peter for any sign of a lie. He licked his lips before continuing the sentence that made him unsettled. “If Lydia died, the Necromancer would be unstoppable.”

“I did,” Peter confirmed with a slight nod of his head. “I believe that Lydia has more power than an average banshee. But in order to harness whatever it is that makes her unique, we need her to be _conscious_.”

“If only she wasn’t comatose,” Stiles sarcastically remarked with a snap of his fingers.

Peter ignored Stiles and turned his attention to Scott, who had been silently absorbing the information given. “You have to go inside her mind.”

Stiles and Derek were immediately vocal, sparing no time to begin their protests, but Scott held up his hand. In response to the interrogative looks he was now on the receiving end of, Scott shrugged his shoulder. “If we were able to break Stiles free from the Nogitsune, we can wake Lydia up the same way.”

“Stiles wasn’t unconscious, Scott,” Derek objected. “You want to try mind-to-mind communication on a comatose person, I can promise you it won’t end well.”

Unexpectedly it wasn’t Scott who turned to Peter to seek reassurance and in turn disregard Derek’s oppositions.

Stiles rested his palms against the tabletop as he internally questioned his own words but spoke them anyway. “Would it work?”

“Scott would have to be careful... but yes. He would not only wake Lydia up but sever the link between her and the Necromancer. The sever couldn’t be completely; she would need to no longer feel him yet still be able to connect to him and control him if necessary.”

A silence fell on the loft. The four other men around the table took time to contemplate the concept. Ultimately, Scott called Deaton and asked for him to come over to the loft. Once he was there, they explained the entire idea to the emissary. There was hesitation on his end and more questions than any of the others had even thought of but eventually, Deaton agreed that they should attempt it. Whatever plan he had previously tried to gain Stiles’ help with was forgotten about.

Melissa was the one who took the most convincing. With Lydia laying in a hospital bed, it made it difficult to gain the privacy that they needed for what they planned to do. If a doctor or nurse, even a fellow patient, were to walk into her room while Scott had his claws stabbed into the back of Lydia’s neck, there would be questions and disruptions. With just one slip Scott could paralyze or kill Lydia – two incidents he did not want to do – so they needed a hospital official to stand guard and deter anyone unaware of the happenings inside her room. The only bright side was that they wouldn’t have to worry about Lydia’s mother bursting in; Scott had no idea where Mrs. Martin was but Melissa had assured him that she was on her way back to Beacon Hills, simply delayed by a weather incident.

While Scott, Isaac and Stiles stood in Lydia’s hospital room, waiting for Deaton to arrive, Stiles couldn’t help but think about how anxious he was. He didn’t know if he would be able to sit by and watch as two of the most important people in his life participated in a dangerous, ancient ritual that could severely harm both of them.

Deaton entered the room just as Stiles came to a conclusion that he hadn’t completely thought through. Still, he verbalized it anyway.

“I want to go in as well.”

The other three in the room turned to look at him. Confusion set in and rendered the werewolves mute. Deaton, on the other hand, was vocal and outwardly disapproving.

“This isn’t something to take lightly.”

Stiles fought back the desire to release a half-hearted laugh. “I’m well aware of that.”

“You’ve never done this before.” Scott had finally found his voice and it wasn’t supportive.

There was a brief pause as Stiles looked away from the faces watching at him and instead focused on the strawberry blond who looked strangely small in the hospital bed. When his attention moved back to Deaton, all he could do was let out a broken sigh.

“She’s my tether... and I’m hers.”

“Are you sure?” Deaton asked, his voice barely above a whisper yet still commanding.

Stiles nodded his head in agreement. A portion of him expected Deaton to ignore his wishes and focus on prepping Scott, but instead Deaton nodded his head as well. For the first time since they had found Lydia, Stiles smiled honestly.

“Okay then, let’s get started,” Deaton continued.

He led Scott and Stiles to the positions they would need to be in for it to work without complications further on. Then came the reiteration of the ritual so that both Scott and Stiles were aware of everything that needed to happen and everything that would happen. Deaton assured them that he would intervene if he needed to but that was only in case of a drastic event. Otherwise, it was just the two of them together for the ritual and they would have to rely on each other and Lydia in order to do what they had to.

Scott’s claws rested on the back of his neck, making Stiles release an uneasy breath that he hadn’t known he was holding. But he was doing this for her. That was his technique to calm his nerves and it worked. He would do anything to ensure Lydia Martin was okay.

It was what came after Scott’s claws had pierced the back of his neck that was the most unnerving.

* * *

Mason wandered along the dimly lit street, attempting to remember which house was Scott’s. His five unanswered phone calls and unanswered texts that reached the high double digits were not going to be ignored by the senior. Liam was a suspect in a murder, something which Mason doubted his best friend was capable of, and yet his senior mentor was barely around to help prove his innocence. Liam’s family had already hired a lawyer but Mason knew that wasn’t how it went in Beacon Hills.

The town was weird. Every single part of it.

There were more unsolved homicides than solved yet nobody seemed to really examine that pattern. There were creepy steroid-abusing guys who enjoyed disguising themselves as ancient creatures and holding high school students hostage in the high school basement yet it was barely investigated. People he considered friends were found to be crazy and hauled off by the law enforcement and never to be heard from again.

So, after considering everything that he had been privy to, Mason knew that if anyone could give him the answers he needed, it was Scott McCall. He just had to catch him at a time of the day where he couldn’t excuse himself by claiming that Coach Finstock needed to see him or that Stiles and Kira were waiting for him.

Mason was getting answers and saving his best friend whether or not Scott willingly helped him.

The street lamp above him began to fade out, crackling as it did. On any other night, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. It was only because of the eerie feeling creeping under his skin and the way wind howled that Mason’s footsteps became faster.

He began to run at what sounded like a voice. Despite the ration side of his brain telling him it was just the way the wind rustled the tree branches, Mason continued to run.

It was an empty street. It was late at night. He had watched enough horror movies to know that settings like this resulted in death.

Again, the ration side of his brain told him that he wasn’t in a horror movie but Mason didn’t listen.

It was as he cut across the park and then subsequently fell on his face that he finally was able to breathe and listen to the voice in his head telling him that he was just being paranoid. He pulled himself off the ground and turned to see just what it was that had caused him to fall.

Even in the dim lighting, Mason could make out what it was. His hand reached for the phone in his pocket but his mouth had other ideas. Before he could stop himself, he had turned back around and begun vomiting the contents of his stomach onto the grass.

Once he was utterly sure there was nothing left to be expelled from his mouth, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He used the other to take his phone out and dial a number he hadn’t ever before.

“Hello, I need the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department,” Mason said, turning back around to face it. “I need to report a murder... well, I need to report a dead body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start by saying, I am sorry if I offended anyone during Stiles' prayer. I personally don't think of any of the characters as overtly religious but that is my own opinion. Still, I apologize if I have offended any readers.
> 
> Secondly, I'm sorry if this chapter seemed like filler because that's what it felt like to me but I couldn't just jump straight into the things that I wanted to. Sometimes filler is good but we may have different opinions on that haha. Also, I'm not sure if anyone does feel this way but I have a gnawing feeling that with each chapter, the fic gets worse. That's probably just me. I'm a self-conscious writer.
> 
> Okay, I would like to thank each person who has stuck around to read this fic and I hope that you all continue to enjoy it as it progress.
> 
> If you have any questions or comments, you can either leave a comment or find me [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/ask).


	10. seems a heavy choice to make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People may have called Lydia empty-headed in the past but to find himself in an actual empty space when trying to communicate with her only added to his trepidation. He expected something more when they first entered her mind; the fact that there was nothing to greet them but an emptiness that made his breath shallow and uneasy made him wonder just how close the connection between Lydia and the Necromancer was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no idea how I feel about this chapter so I'll let you guys be the judges.

The darkness Stiles found himself in was disconcerting.

People may have called Lydia empty-headed in the past but to find himself in an actual empty space when trying to communicate with her only added to his trepidation. He expected something more when they first entered her mind; the fact that there was nothing to greet them but an emptiness that made his breath shallow and uneasy made him wonder just how close the connection between Lydia and the Necromancer was.

Stiles’ head whipped his head around in an attempt to make out something in the darkness. It hit him that without sonar or night vision, it would be difficult to find anything. That was when he tried the next best thing he could think of. He threw his arms out in front of him and began moving them erratically only to hit something vocal.

“Dude,” Scott complained, grabbing the arm that had hit him. He pulled Stiles toward him. “Can you see anything?”

Stiles’ tugged his arm from his best friend’s grip. “Um hello, I’m not the alpha werewolf here.”

A light began to flicker toward the far end of the room, illuminating a figure on a chair. Stiles and Scott shared a confused look that was barely able to be seen by either before nodding and walking toward the figure. The closer they came to the figure, the more discernable it was.

It was a girl, hunched over, and crying as evidenced by the laboured breathing and sniffling. When Stiles saw the strawberry-blond waves be flicked over her shoulder to rest against her back, he tried to run toward her. Scott’s hand on his shoulder told him silently to be cautious.

They stopped a few steps away from the chair and again shared a look; this time they weren’t confused but instead trying to decide how to approach the situation. Their decision-making time was cut short as Lydia began to twist around on the chair in order to face them. On first glance, Stiles realized this wasn’t their Lydia. It was sophomore Lydia, dressed in her tattered and bloodied Winter Formal dress. Her cheeks were stained with blood and running mascara. Her eyes were red and filled with tears. All he wanted to do was take her into his arms and hug her but the frightened expression on her face made him immobile.

Her arm slowly raised to point in their direction. Stiles had no idea what to say. Neither did Scott. They both stood there unsure of what to do next. It was only as Stiles began to truly examine the Lydia in front of them that he realized she wasn’t pointing at them.

She was pointing to something behind him.

Stiles turned on his heels gently. He was met with glowing, red eyes in the distance. Given the information about werewolves that he had read and experienced firsthand, he knew that the distance between the werewolf and them could easily be closed in a matter of seconds. That was when he tugged on the sleeve of Scott’s shirt to inform him that they weren’t the only ones trying to communicate with Lydia.

The two stood there and stared at the alpha werewolf eyes glaring at them. Stiles swore there should have been music playing, something from one of the old western movies his dad loved. Standing there in the face off, it wasn’t a matter of which side could draw their gun first but which was the stronger of the two alphas.

It only took a second for the silence to be disrupted by the sound of claws scraping along the floor as the alpha werewolf began rushing toward them. Stiles jumped back and instinctively wrapped an arm around Lydia. Scott shifted and rather than prepare for the fight that he assumed would occur once he was face to face with the other werewolf, he decided to scare it off. Scott released a guttural howl that stopped the other alpha where it was. The howl echoed throughout the room before slowly disappearing, just as the red glowing eyes that were tormenting them faded away as well.

Scott turned back around to face Stiles and Lydia. A look of puzzlement took the place of his werewolf attributes as he motioned to the chair in which the sophomore Lydia had been sitting. Stiles glanced down, unsure of what his best friend was pointing at. It became clear when there was no longer anyone sitting in the chair and Stiles’ arm was wrapped around air instead of Lydia’s shoulder.

He straightened his arm, shaking it slightly before glancing around. The overhead lights in the room began to flicker on in succession. Both Stiles and Scott watched as the once pitch-black room became an almost blinding white. Their eyes fell on the familiar blue double doors on the far end of the room. There was no longer an alpha between them and the Beacon Hills High doors or the chair beside Stiles that sophomore Lydia had been sitting on.

Scott and Stiles edged toward the new and unexpected exit they had been given. The apprehension they both felt was almost palpable. There could be a number of situations waiting on the other side; Lydia’s mind was a dark and perplexing place. After everything they had been through together as a pack and individually had had an intense effect on each of them.

That was the reason Stiles took a breath before pushing the other side of the door in unison with Scott. He thought they would stumble onto a nightmare-inducing setting. He assumed it would be something that would haunt him even after they returned to their natural state.

As it turned out, it was a nightmare setting he was accustomed to.

Scott and Stiles were standing next to each other on the footpath leading up to the front entrance of Beacon Hills High. Masses of students walked past them, engrossed in their own conversations and oblivious to the two boys and their mirrored expression of idiotic confusion.

Stiles glanced down at his change of clothes then at Scott’s before running a hand through his own hair and letting out an annoyed sigh. “So, dude, it turns out that sophomore year is a recurring theme in Lydia’s mind.”

The only positive Stiles could see was that the mind-to-mind communication seemed heal his broken wrist. At least healed it until he opened his eyes and found himself back in the hospital room.

Scott’s eyes moved away from the high school’s entrance to his best friend. All confusion disappeared from his face when he saw Stiles’ buzz-cut. Scott even let out a small chuckle much to Stiles' chagrin.

“I can’t believe this is how she still sees me,” Stiles continued, adjusting the strap of the backpack now attached to him.

“You aren’t the only one who regressed,” Scott countered, one hand running through his hair before recalling the moment they were reliving. His hand relocated to his side and lifted up his shirt. Underneath, the bandaged bite of Peter Hale was apparent, just like on their first day of sophomore year.

Stiles began to say something when he saw her. She was wearing the same clothes as Lydia had been the day, her hair was curled in the exact same way and even her strut was remarkably identical. But she wasn’t sophomore Lydia; he knew that from the second his eyes saw hers. It was only a brief second-long glimpse but he knew that it was their Lydia. She didn’t stop though. She continued past them, immersed in her own conversation.

Without thinking about it, Stiles followed her. His hand reached for hers just as she started ascending the stairs up to the door. She whirled around to face him at a speed that he thought would give her whiplash. The frightened expression on her face was quickly masked by a look of disinterest.

“What?” Even the venomous tone of her voice was reminiscent of her sophomore self but he knew better.

He knew _her_ better.

“Scott and I are here to help you severe the link between you and the Necromancer. Come on,” Stiles responded, tugging her hand toward him.

Lydia jerked her away from his grip like it burned her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but touch me again and it won’t matter that your father’s the Sheriff.”

Dumbfounded, Stiles just stood there and watched as she walked away from him. It was _their_ Lydia. So why was she acting like that?

His only motivation was to continue to follow her. He needed her to be aware that they were there to save her. He needed her to know that he and Scott weren’t figments of her imagination but her closest friends, who wanted nothing more in that moment than for her to wake up and no longer be harassed by the Necromancer. It was instinctive to run after her, without making sure his best friend was next to him and ready to follow him.

Stiles’ run turned into an awkward, jumpy skid as he took in the new surroundings. He was standing on the top step of the entrance he had just walked away from; the only difference was that the blue, cloudless sky that had previously been there was now a clear black. The only stars he could see were the ones being projected onto the building. After glancing down at his change of wardrobe, Stiles realized exactly what night he had stumbled into.

“Lydia!” Stiles shouted as he began to run once again.

He knew exactly where to go. He had had this exact dream a hundred times. Each dream’s beginning was unique but they all ended in him being too late to save her. No matter how fast he ran or whether he grabbed Scott as he left the gymnasium, Stiles would always reach the lacrosse field in time to see Peter attack Lydia. But this wasn’t his mind. Maybe that meant there could be a different ending.

Stiles reached the lacrosse field as the blinding stadium-quality lights began to turn on sequentially. He saw her adjust, glancing around for an answer to what was happening while still calling out for Jackson. His feet never stopped moving even when he could see a figure lurking behind the bleachers. Peter Hale was the perfect predator pre-being burned by two Molotov cocktails and getting his throat slashed by his nephew. The only problem was that he wasn’t about to get the prey he was stalking; not with Stiles around.

“Lydia,” he uttered, taking her hand despite her objections. She turned around with a spiteful look in her eye like he was about to ruin the perfect reunion that she imagined would happen between her and Jackson. Stiles rolled his eyes and tugged on her hand. “We have to go _now_.”

“Stiles, go away,” Lydia hissed. No matter how hard she tried to take her hand back, Stiles wouldn’t budge.

It was only after releasing an exasperated sigh that he thought of a definite way to drag her away from the imminent attack. He could see Peter begin to emerge from behind the bleachers. That was when Stiles wrapped his arms around her and started to run toward the woods behind them. He needed to put as much distance between them and Peter the sadistic Demon Wolf as possible. It would have been more helpful if Lydia stopped kicking him while he was trying to rescue her.

They were deep in the woods when Stiles finally let Lydia go. Her first instinct was to hit him in his shoulder. Her eyes were wide, the anger in her gaze attempted to mask the fear she was feeling.

Lydia began to back away from him. “I am not going to be another unsolved murder in Beacon Hills, Stiles Stilinski. If you touch me again, I will scream.”

“Trust me, it’s not me you should be worrying about,” Stiles said, trying to determine which direction would lead them back to the school. All they needed to do was make it back inside.

A blood-curdling feeling crashed into him like a wave. It made him feel numb and increased the sound of his heart beat until it began to block out all other noise. He turned around, assuming that it was because Peter was nearby, but there was nothing but an emptiness in the woods around them.

Stiles turned back to her. The volume of his heart beat lowered as he glanced at her. She was a calming influence even without her lips on his. “Did you feel that?”

Lydia took another step away from him, her eyes brimming with tears. He tried to reach out to her but she recoiled. She shook her head and wiped away the stray tear that ran down her cheek. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop using him to get to me,” Lydia replied, her voice cracking halfway. “I’ve seen this before. You want me docile and controllable but I swear, if you keep using him to break me, Scott McCall will be the least of your problems.”

Her confident stance returned despite her watery eyes. She started to walk away from him but he reached out for her. All he wanted was an answer to alleviate the confusion that her words had created but instead he received a scream so high-pitched that his hands moved up to cover his ears and his eyes squeezed shut innately.

It seemed to last for hours. Her scream echoed in his ears even after she had stopped. He couldn’t contemplate what would happen next. Everyone would have heard it. Everyone would run out into the woods, possibly call in the Sheriff’s Department, and Stiles would have to try and lie his way out of the situation. Most people knew that he had been in infatuated with Lydia since the third grade so to find them together in the woods in addition to her scream and the fact that he had dragged her into said woods against her will would not look good for him. Even if it was Lydia’s mind and not reality, Stiles knew the anxiety that was sinking was entirely real.

His hands left his ears just as his eyes began to open slowly. He expected to see her walking off into the distance. He expected to have to run after her and again be faced with the banshee scream he was sure would cause him to lose his hearing one day. Instead he saw the back of a random student’s head.

Stiles glanced around to find himself in his junior year English classroom. He was greeted by a relieved smile on his best friend’s face; that was the Scott he had come in with, the Scott who knew how everything happened.

“Dude,” Scott whispered, leaning over to close the small space between them. “I ran after you and ended up having to relive my first awkward dinner with the Argents. What happened?”

Stiles shook his head, hyperactively tapping his fingers against the desk as his eyes watched the doorway for Lydia. “I was at Winter Formal. I tried to talk to Lydia after I saved her from Peter but... she said some really weird things, Scott.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Stiles began while his eyes trailed from the entrance to Scott’s. “I don’t think that we’re the only ones trying to communicate with Lydia via her mind. But we are the only ones with good intentions.”

* * *

Isaac wasn’t nervous.

_He was not nervous._

He felt like pacing. He felt like playing with his hands as he paced. He felt like pestering Deaton with questions regarding mind-to-mind communication as he played with his hands and paced. He was doing it because he was bored. He was not doing it because he was nervous.

Nervous implied an overabundance of caring and other emotions directed at a group of people who he hadn’t seen in six months. Nervous implied that he relied on these idiots and would be physically pained if anything were to happen to them.

He _wasn’t_ nervous.

He just couldn’t sit still and watch as Scott and Stiles performed a dangerous ritual on an unconscious Lydia in order to break the connection with a person practicing Necromancy and subsequently wake her from her unconscious state.

Isaac needed to be ready to spring into action just in case.

 _That_ was why he was pacing.

Bored and prepared were a combination that always resulted in pacing.

It had already been an hour. An hour in which he had taken a call from Derek, who wanted to know what was happening and update him on what happened outside of the hospital, and a call from Kira, who was worried that something would happen. Both conversations had ended quicker than he had anticipated. He thought they would talk more, allow him to think about something other than the three people participating in something incredibly lethal when done wrong.

“What happens if they can’t save her?”

The words left his mouth before he had even thought about them. That was becoming a habit with him. First the declaration about Derek and Lydia and then the declaration that he was nervous. Once the words left his mouth, there was no denying that he had an overabundance of caring and other emotions directed toward the pack that he could never call his. He didn’t think of himself as a beta anymore. He was an omega.

He was an omega who just happened to have a strong emotional bond with a pack that he could never call his.

Deaton glanced away from the trio to the werewolf before he rubbed his eyes. “I have a feeling those two would die trying to save her, which is why I would rather think about what happens _after_ they save her.”

Isaac rolled his eyes while continuing to pace the small hospital room. “ _Okay..._ What happens _after_ they save her then?”

“We work on harnessing Lydia’s abilities. In time, we’ll be able to find the Necromancer.”

“While he keeps sacrificing people to strengthen his own abilities?” Isaac questioned. “Because, in case you’ve forgotten, another body was found tonight. That is two bodies as opposed to our... _nothing_.”

Deaton sighed, his eyes moving away from Isaac to rest on the clock. “Isaac, I think it would be best if you took some time away. I need you to be focused and calm, which you clearly aren’t right now.”

He knew that there was no point in arguing with Deaton; he would probably become loud and angry while the veterinarian kept his poker face. Isaac let out a frustrated groan before turning and walking out the door. Melissa gave him a confused glance that Isaac couldn’t answer at that moment. He just kept walking until he felt the cool night air hit him. That was what calmed him and made his heart stop occupying his throat for the moment. He knew he couldn’t go back inside yet without the same... _nervousness_ setting in so he called Derek, hoping for a longer conversation.

Eventually he would have to return to Lydia’s hospital room. He would have to stand there and wait for something good to happen. He would have to deal with that blood-curdling feeling that crashed into him like a wave whenever he stood too close to her bed.

But until then, he would try to gain information on what was happening elsewhere in Beacon Hills and try to mask his nervousness with false indifference.

* * *

Stiles chewed on the end of his pen while he tried to inconspicuously watch Lydia at her desk. It was obvious that she noticed him by the death glare that had his name written all over it.

Maybe he was wrong and Lydia Martin was actually _65%_ evil.

Or at least the her who didn't trust him was.

Either way, the glare made him almost choke on the pen lid and resulted in a fair number of their peers turning around to look at him.

What he needed was Scott.

Scott could corroborate his story. With Scott by his side, maybe Lydia would believe him when he told her that it was a rescue mission not whatever she thought it was. Then they could face the monster that was lurking around in her head, defeat it and wake up.

The only problem with that was that Scott had been called away under the guise of responding to a call from his mother. He had tried to stay but by the way everything and everyone in the classroom except Lydia, Stiles and Scott just stopped, it was apparent they had to follow whatever path they were given.

There was something about the whole situation that made Stiles feel like someone in Lydia’s mind didn’t want Scott and Stiles to stay a united front for long periods of time.

Stiles spat out the pen lid, throwing it away carelessly, and began tapping the pen on the side of the desk. It was bad enough to sit down and watch the Darach teach the Heart of Darkness, having to pretend that he didn’t know she was a human-sacrificing, wolfsbane-poisoning, revenge-driven sociopath who slept with the same sourwolf as Lydia.

His eyes moved to the window behind Lydia. He knew exactly how this moment played out. He could already see the flock of birds in the distance. So he ignored the fact that he had actually once had a nightmare in which her glare caused his skin to melt and turned his attention to her.

“You should be more afraid of me than a true alpha,” she uttered under her breath, her eyes never leaving the notebook she was writing in.

Stiles let out a hollow laugh. “I have been since I found out you could make a Molotov cocktail with a few simple ingredients. I’m also 99% sure that if you killed me, they would never find my body.”

Unenthusiastically and somewhat cautiously, Lydia looked over at him. “Stop using Stiles.”

“What am I using myself for?” he asked impatiently with a small flailing movement of his arms.

The first bird flew into the window, which made Lydia jump and Stiles roll his eyes. He had really wanted to get through this conversation before the attack. He would use his body shield her when the birds crashed through the windows; it was an instinctive and unchangeable reaction to protect her even though he knew she was capable of protecting herself.

“You and I both know what’s about to happen,” Stiles continued. The speed of his words began to increase as he noticed the flock coming closer to the classroom. “And I have no idea what happens if I close my eyes again but I swear that I am real. I swear that Scott and I are here to save you... Lydia, look into my eyes because there is no possible way that anyone could successfully imitate the way I look at you.”

Lydia reluctantly did what he said. She looked into his eyes and after a moment, her steely resolve melted away. Her hand reached out to touch his cheek as the first syllable of his nickname began to fall from her lips.

That was when the birds hit the windows, breaking through and causing the once peaceful classroom to dissolve into a chaotic mess. Stiles reached for her, pulling her desk away in order to cover her from the vicious anger the birds bombarded the other people in the classroom with. His eyes shut as he held her tight to his chest.

“Stilinski!”

The sudden emergence of Coach’s voice forced his eyes to open. He was no longer covering Lydia but instead sitting on an old leather bus seat, staring at a madman who should never have been given a whistle. A quick glance to his left at the pissed off yet wounded Scott next to him made him realize where they were.

“Shut it!” Coach continued after he had blown his whistle. “Seriously, it’s a little bus. Stop asking me questions.”

Stiles shook his head before slightly covering his mouth. “I seriously hate him.”

Scott rolled his eyes, his hand moving down to pull up his shirt and reveal the un-healing wound he had been given. His head hit the window softly as he let out a shaky breath. “I think we have a bigger problem than Coach.”

“We stitched you up before, we can do it again,” Stiles said determinedly before taking a look at the wound. “All I have to do is make Jared throw up again.”

He took out his phone and called Lydia. The intense amount of déjà vu he felt during the conversation was only diminished slightly by the noticeably different tone of Lydia’s voice as she spoke to him. She knew now that they were _her_ Stiles and Scott, and they wouldn’t leave her here.

All they had to do was follow the same exact steps as they had when the situation had first happened. If it was the Necromancer inside her brain who was causing Scott and Stiles to continuously be split apart so they couldn’t save Lydia, they would just have to act as automatons in her memory. They couldn’t act any differently or say anything different. Not if they wanted to stay in the same place for longer than a few minutes.

Eventually Scott was stitched and began healing, thankfully leaving Stiles’ internal question of ‘ _what happens if you die in a mind-to-mind communication_ ’ unanswered, and Allison and Lydia were brought onto the bus despite Coach’s initial objections. Stiles had no idea how exactly to mask the conversation regarding the three of them finding and subsequently severing the link between Lydia and the Necromancer but he tried.

And his attempts were futile.

Lydia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before meeting his eyes. “You two shouldn’t have come.”

“You and Scott came for me,” Stiles replied. He always tried not to think about the brief period of time he wasn’t himself but somehow he was always back to it. “I’m just returning the favour.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

It wasn’t the way she avoided his gaze in an attempt to hide the tears welling in her eyes but the way her voice cracked as she spoke that made his heart clench.

Maybe he was wrong and Lydia Martin was actually less than _40%_ evil regardless of whether it was a good day or a bad one.

He reached out to grab her hand but she moved it to the back of her neck. Stiles sighed. “Lydia, we know what we’re doing.”

“No, you don’t,” Lydia let out barely above a whisper as her gaze returned to him. “Stiles, you--”

It happened quickly. One second he was staring at her and the next the bus was violently rolling. They had been hit by something, completely changing the memory. The screams of his fellow lacrosse players resonated throughout the bus and drowned out anything he had to say.

His hand reached out for Lydia’s in an attempt to pull her closer to him while he called out for Scott. But his calls were lost among the sea of scared shouts and his hand was grabbing at empty space. His eyes searched the bus as he tried to hold himself against the seat in front of him; he was alone in a bus that was continuing to tumbling aggressively across an ever-lengthening area.

Stiles really hoped that he wasn’t about to get an answer to his question.

Each time the bus rolled, his fingernails dug further into the seat. It physically pained him to keep hold and try not to go flying. He had to find them though. He couldn’t help Lydia if he was dead.

When the bus finally slammed into a hard _something_ , Stiles fell to the roof of the bus, which could be classified as the floor given that the bus was upside down. Before he had had some idea of how the situation would play out but he had never been in a situation like this before and he doubted Lydia had either. It was uncharted territory, which made Stiles nervous.

Still, he persevered and began to crawl toward one of the broken windows. His head continuously moved around to ensure that he wasn’t about to be attacked. There was nothing but an eerily silence around him. The blood-curdling feeling came back as he began to crawl out of the bus. His fingers grasped the ground underneath him. He expected pavement or sand given the road they had been travelling on. Instead Stiles pulled back his hand to see his palm filled with dirt.

Once his entire body was out of the bus, Stiles dusted off his jeans and straightened up. That was when he realized where he was and exactly what had stopped the bus’ tumbling.

Everything seemed to come back to Beacon Hills Preserve and the Nemeton.

Even when they were in their own reality, the Nemeton was always a prevailing feature. The sooner they could get away from Beacon Hills and go to college, the easier their lives would be. But given that their parents would remain living in the town that was a beacon for the more monstrous of supernatural creatures, Stiles assumed the pack would always be drawn back as well to make sure nothing happened to their biological families.

“Stiles,” Lydia shouted. Just as his head turned around to glance at her, her hand slipped into his and tugged it along with her as she continued to run away from the direction she had come from. “We have to run.”

He did what she said, grasping her hand like he was afraid she would disappear if he didn’t. Actually he was terrified that if he even glanced away from her she would disappear completely no matter how tightly their hands were clasped.

They came to a skidding halt when she pulled him behind a large, thick tree. Her free hand went to cover his mouth as his back hit the tree. Lydia’s head darted around, her eyes wide and afraid. When she was sure they were alone, she exhaled a deep breath and gave him a small smile.

“We haven’t got long, so I need you to stand there and listen to what I say,” she whispered. Her gaze was soft as she met his. “You and Scott will die if you stay here. I know what my head’s like when I’m not mentally linked to a necromancer and believe me, it is the last place you want to stay in. I will wake up, Stiles. I _promise_ you that I will wake up... but I can’t if you’re still in here so please get out of here.”

It was only when she was sure he had listened to and understood what she said that Lydia removed the hand that had been covering his mouth. Stiles’ mouth began opening to form a response but she couldn’t let him. She couldn’t hear whatever was about to fall from his lips. That was why she did it.

That was why for the second time in her life Lydia Martin made Stiles Stilinski hold his breath through an unexpected yet still extraordinary kiss. It took him a second to process what was happening before he gave in to it, his free hand trying to hold her closer to him. He was so engrossed in the kiss that he didn’t notice her let go of his hand or notice that she took a small step forward.

Her lips moved away from his but she couldn’t stand there trying to comprehend what she had felt during the kiss. It was different this time. Stiles was standing there, his eyes still closed, and she knew that _he_ was lurking in the shadows, waiting for Lydia to move so that he could dispose of Stiles. Lydia couldn’t have that happen. She had no idea what happened if you died in a mind-to-mind communication ritual but she doubted it ended happily.

Lydia stood on the tips of her toes and leaned up to his ear. It was breaking her heart but she had to let him go. She couldn’t watch him die. She licked her lips nervously before smiling even though she knew Stiles was still revelling in the kiss.

“You have to see her, Stiles, and you have to trust her because I didn’t,” Lydia whispered into his ear. Her hand rose to cover his eyes; the next thing he needed to see was wherever they were performing the ritual, not the inside of her mind’s Beacon Hills Preserve. Her eyes began to water and she didn’t even care about trying to hide them. “Now I need you to wake up and I need you to be okay... I need you to be okay _for me_. So please, Stiles, wake up.”

* * *

Stiles’ eyes shot open at the same time as Scott’s did. He felt his best friend’s claws retract from the back of his neck just as Stiles released a deep breath he hadn’t even known he had been holding. His hand moved up to rub the back of his neck slightly. That wasn’t exactly an experience he wanted to relive anytime soon. But he didn’t care, so long as Lydia woke up.

Deaton and Isaac had closed the space between them in the room. They were full of questions but the first one that Stiles could actually comprehend was Isaac’s “ _are you okay?_ ” which was surprisingly directed toward both Scott _and_ Stiles. Nothing said friendship quite like watching over someone while they participated in a supernatural ritual to talk to a comatose friend.

“It was like a compilation of our greatest hits,” Stiles replied groggily while he stretched. He turned his attention to Scott who was in a similar position of stretching. “Are you okay, dude?”

Scott’s distant expression transformed into one of reassurance. “Yeah. I mean, it was weird but whatever, Lydia’s going to be okay.”

“She is?” Isaac asked, a sigh of relief leaving him.

“I don’t know,” Stiles replied. There was no point trying to hide the truth from two supernaturally-enhanced lie detectors. “We just need to give her time.”

“Do we really have ti--” Isaac began before being disrupted by three sharp, short knocks on the door.

It opened wide enough for Melissa to look in without it being suspicious to anyone walking through the hallway. “Her doctor’s on his way for rounds. So whatever you’re doing in there you can finish it out here. Now move it.”

The four men walked out, trying not to look conspicuous as they did. They chose to huddle further down the hallway where there was less chance of a patient or hospital worker hearing them. Melissa joined them, unable to hide the curiosity she was feeling.

“What happened in there?” Melissa asked, anxiously looking between Scott and Stiles.

“Just your average, every day supernatural ritual,” Stiles replied before rubbing his hand down his tired face.

Deaton glanced at the two who had just woken up. “We’ll have to get you back to the Animal Clinic. As much I as like fluorescent lighting and an audience in dressed in scrubs, I believe that we will be able to answer any questions you may have once I have access to the archives.”

Stiles nodded with everyone else but his attention was distracted by the doctor walking into Lydia’s room followed by a group of fresh-faced interns. There was nothing left in the room that would suggest the comatose strawberry blond had been doing anything for the past few hours other than lying in the hospital bed. Unless Scott’s claws in the back of her neck left a mark. He checked his own neck, massaging the obvious wounds the claws had left. Maybe they wouldn’t actually look at Lydia’s neck. _Hopefully_ they wouldn’t.

“Okay, well you go do that,” Melissa replied, clapping her hands together. “I’m going to go pass out for the next 12 hours.”

As the huddle began to disperse, they heard it.

They heard _him_.

There were no other rooms with doctors in it so they knew exactly whose room it was coming from.

“Code Blue! We have a Code Blue!” the doctor shouted.

That was also when everything began to slow down for Stiles.

He saw Melissa clutching her stethoscope as she ran toward the room, just barely sliding past the resuscitation team as they entered.

He saw the interns rush out of the room to watch from the windows whose shutters were now open.

He could see Scott and Isaac burst into a run, both their faces mirrored the same feeling of anxiety and fear.

Deaton was following after them in a fast walk. His usual calm demeanour was replaced by a fear that Stiles had never thought he would witness the veterinarian feeling.

Stiles knew he should run. He knew he should stand next to his best friend. He knew he should watch but how could he?

It wasn’t just because he was frozen where he stood.

It wasn’t just because he could feel a panic attack beginning.

It was because she had promised that she would wake up.

He couldn’t have the image of her begin resuscitated when he knew she would wake up; she had promised him that she would wake up.

Something spurred his movement. It was a feeling that he needed to be there against the window. Scott’s head turned in his direction but Stiles couldn’t make out what his best friend was trying to say. Isaac tried to hold him back but Stiles pushed past him to stand next to the intern.

Everything that was said to him by Scott, Deaton and Isaac was white noise. Actually, the only sound that resonated in his ears was the sound of a flat line.

 _Her_ flat line.

The rest of the hospital was a blur compared to her room. Melissa began to break down off to the side of the room while the doctor who first walked into the room hung his head heavily. The sound from the heart monitor was cut short as another doctor switched it off.

The moment he saw her laying on that bed, it was heart-stoppingly clear.

Lydia Martin was dead.

And Stiles Stilinski couldn’t catch his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you love it? Did you hate it?  
> Also I'm sorry but the next chapter makes me sad so it might make you sad as well. I thought I should warn you.
> 
> If you have any questions or comments, you can either comment below or find me [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/).


	11. when weather comes tearing down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes were fixed on his hands that were now in front of him. There were ten fingers. He had ten fingers. How could he have ten fingers when Lydia was dead? It had to be a dream. There was no possible way that they were not still inside her mind. There was no possible way that Lydia Martin was actually dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I have no idea what it feels like to have a panic attack so I used the internet to help me.

He actually thought there was a chance his heart could stop beating.

Stiles took steps backward, away from the prying eyes of the interns and out of the reach of Scott and Isaac, while his hands came up to hold his head.

Lydia Martin was dead.

Lydia Martin was _dead_.

 _Lydia Martin_ was dead.

He hunched over, trying desperately to take a deep breath but failing. He knew his breath was too shallow and too fast so he continued to try breathing deeply. That only made things worse.

It felt like he might be dying.

And he was sure that wasn’t just because of the panic attack.

Time seemed to slow down even further as he fell to the ground. His legs had lost the ability to hold him up or maybe it was the knowledge that if he moved his head up he would be able to see her laying on that bed. Whatever it was, it left him falling against the wall and sinking to the ground while he watched two sets of sneaker-covered feet run toward him.

His eyes were fixed on his hands that were now in front of him.

There were ten fingers.

 _He_ had ten fingers. How could he have ten fingers when Lydia was dead?

It had to be a dream.

There was no possible way that they were not still inside her mind.

There was no possible way that Lydia Martin was actually dead.

His gaze was slowly taken from his hands as someone moved his head up. Scott’s hands were firmly clasped to either side of his best friend’s head while he looked into his eyes. Scott’s eyes were brimming with tears, which made Stiles wonder why he wasn’t crying yet. Yet there was also fear and worry on his friend’s face, like he was afraid he was going to lose Stiles as well. Isaac was crouched beside him wearing the exact same expression.

Stiles tried to say something but he couldn’t. He was actually speechless.

So he did the next best thing.

He turned his head to the side, pulling away from Scott’s grip and managed to throw up the contents of his stomach.

* * *

Isaac had sat with Scott and Stiles in the examination room until Melissa had finally allowed Stiles to leave. He still wasn’t speaking; none of them were really. Melissa only nodded her head once she was sure Stiles was okay and the only word that had left Scott’s mouth was the call for his mother after Stiles had vomited on the hospital floor. That was one of the downsides of having enhanced senses; Isaac could still smell it.

Eventually Scott had indicated that he wanted to take Stiles back home by himself so Isaac was left to stand in front of the hospital and actually think. Everything with Stiles had been a distraction. Usually the flailing idiot was annoying to Isaac but at that moment, all he wanted was a two-hour lecture on the history of werewolves or the history of the male circumcision. Isaac needed to have something distract him from thinking about Lydia.

If he could just think of Lydia as the girl who maliciously laughed at him when he nervously asked her out in freshman year maybe it wouldn’t hurt the way it did.

Why did it hurt like that?

He wanted to say it was because she was Allison’s best friend. Allison; the girl who he had barely had a chance to love. He wanted to say that being around Lydia made him feel closer to Allison even though she was gone. But that wasn’t the truth.

It hurt because Lydia was his friend.

It made him feel less like an omega and more like the beta he had once been. Omegas didn’t hurt when a pack member of an old pack passed away because they only relied on themselves. It didn’t feel like they had lost a part of themselves when an old pack member died so why did it feel like that to him?

In an attempt to distract himself from the pain he felt, Isaac walked. He walked until he reached the highest point in Beacon Hills. He ignored the vibrations of his phone and tried to think about anything other than the way Lydia looked as they had tried to restart her heart. The next time he saw Chris Argent he would ask to be taught how to compartmentalize his emotions because Isaac had never wanted to feel like this again, not after Allison, and yet still did.

He had been staring over Beacon Hills for what seemed like hours. Everything looked so small and so insignificant from where he stood. The town itself was nothing compared to everything that was out there. The majority of the town down there knew nothing about the existence of werewolves, banshees and kanimas. They didn’t realize that they were being tormented by a necromancer; they just knew that bodies were piling up and that the Beacon Hills Whirlwinds were probably going to win the championship game. They also didn’t realize they had just lost one of the most important people in their town.

The buzzing in his pocket was relentless. Isaac took his phone out and stared at the notification that he had 13 missed calls from Derek Hale. Without even thinking about it, Isaac hurled his phone in the direction of the town before turning around and walking away.

* * *

Melissa had offered to drive them to the Stilinski house in what ended up being the most silent car ride the three had ever had. Scott hadn’t been able to stop staring at his best friend who was practically immobile. There weren’t many moments in his life that he had seen Stiles look like that. Even in the worst of times, Stiles was able to speak or give some indication that he would be okay. The last time Scott had seen him like this was the week after Claudia passed away; he and Stiles had sat up in his room and watched movies for seven days while Melissa tried to help the Sheriff with the arrangements and eventually ended up doing it herself.

Scott had no idea what to say even if Stiles did suddenly start talking. Lydia was gone and Scott couldn’t even handle it himself. He wanted to cry and shout and kill the Necromancer with his own claws but instead he tried to stay pragmatic for his best friend. Occasionally Stiles would turn his head slightly away from the side window, almost as if he wanted to say something, then turn back to look at the passing buildings.

When they finally arrived, Melissa couldn’t get out of the car. Her fingers were gripping the steering wheel tightly in an effort to not cry; she needed to be strong for her boys. She was barely able to raise her hand to wave goodbye as Scott helped Stiles into the house. Scott gave a small wave before turning back to the front door. His free hand unlocked the door while the other continued to prop up Stiles.

Scott sat Stiles on the edge of his bed before taking a seat beside him. They both stared at the wall in silence. Scott ignored the vibration of his phone and provided silent support for his best friend.

His mind wandered to Lydia, even though that was the last place he wanted it to go. She had trusted him as her alpha. She had thought he would protect her and he hadn’t. He had let down her down and he had let down Allison by allowing her best friend to die.

_Die._

Lydia had _died_.

Scott could tell himself that a thousand times and still think he was lying to himself. How was the pack supposed to do anything now? It seemed like no matter how hard they tried to save everyone, they ended up losing an important part of them.

His phone continued to vibrate in his pocket and despite his want to stay with his best friend, Scott knew that whoever was on the other line wouldn’t stop calling. He stood up and exited the room with the phone in his hand. Derek had called him nine times which was exceedingly weird considering the werewolf was kind of a technophobe and hated meaningless conversation.

“What?” It was harsher than Scott intended it to be but at that moment, the only thing he wanted was to sit next to his best friend and try not to feel like he could break any second.

“Why the hell has no one been answering me?” Derek snarled back.

Derek didn’t know.

It made Scott almost drop his phone. He had to tell Derek that Lydia was gone. But he couldn’t do it over the phone. He didn’t want to leave his best friend yet he knew he had to. At least for an hour.

Scott sighed. He had to explain his reasoning in a way that wouldn’t get Derek too suspicious. He ran a hand down his face. “Can you get Kira, Malia and Liam to come to the loft? That way I can tell everyone what happened with Lydia.”

“Fine.”

The conversation ended, making him slightly relieved because it meant he wouldn’t accidentally let it slip. For a few more minutes, the rest of the pack would live in blissful ignorance. For a few more minutes, the rest of the pack would assume that everything was fine and there was no need to worry or cry. Scott wished that he could be in their positions. He wanted to not carry the knowledge that one of his closest friends was gone and would never come back.

Scott didn’t enter Stiles’ room again, choosing to instead stand against the doorframe. He looked at his friend who was still in the exact same seating position. “I need to go to Derek’s for a while.”

No response.

He didn’t even see Stiles blink.

“I’ll come back afterwards,” Scott continued.

Again there was no response.

He knew asking if Stiles was okay would be the stupidest question to ask so he turned around and left. As he was exiting the Stilinski house, Scott took his phone out of his pocket again. He dialled the Sheriff’s number, inhaling deeply as he braced himself for what he was about to do. He had told himself that he wouldn’t let Derek know about Lydia over the phone and he wasn’t about to contradict himself with the Sheriff.

“Scott, is something wrong?” Michael asked as he answered the phone.

Scott swallowed the lump in his throat that was making it difficult to speak. “You should go home. Something happened and... And you should go home.”

“Is it Stiles?” The worry in the Sheriff’s voice was apparent.

“No,” Scott replied softly, shaking his head even though he knew that it couldn’t be seen over the phone. “But something happened... He needs someone and I can’t be there for him right now.”

The phone call ended abruptly. He was sure that the Sheriff had hung up and raced out of the station to be with his son, which made Scott feel mildly better about leaving his mourning best friend.

It would be a somewhat brief walk to Derek’s considering he didn’t have his bike but at least that meant the rest of the pack could continue to live without the knowledge of her death for a little longer. It also meant that Scott could let his emotions out without anyone else around.

Which is exactly what he did.

* * *

Every step Isaac took felt heavier than the last. He actually had to hold onto the railing to stop himself from falling. There was a lump in his throat that seemed to get bigger as he closed the gap between himself and Derek’s loft.

He could hear voices from inside and after a brief pause, he realized that the loft was filled with people who had no idea what happened. It made him feel physically ill. He gripped the railing tighter, feeling his claws dig into his palm, and took a deep breath.

There was no hiding his emotions from five supernatural creatures.

Isaac stopped outside the loft door and tried to calm the heavy pounding of his heart. With every beat, he was sure his heart would break through his ribs. He had never given news like this before. He had never _wanted_ to. But there he stood, about to make at least four of the five inside the loft feel the exactly the same way as he did, and he honestly felt like he was about to pull a Stilinski and vomit.

He shook his head and slid the door open slightly. The minute he saw the five of them look up at him expectantly, Isaac lost the ability to string together a sentence. His hands began to shake faintly and the lump in his throat grew three sizes.

His feet moved before they were actually able to, causing him to trip as his hand shot out to hold the railing of the small stairs leading down to the floor of the loft. Derek moved forward to catch his former beta while Isaac’s free hand motioned for him to stay. His other hand stayed connected to the railing like it was a life support. Once the numb feeling in his legs disappeared, he was able to stand without the support of the metal rail in his fist.

“Isaac, what’s wrong?” Derek asked. The concern on his face only amplified the nauseous feeling in the pit of Isaac’s stomach.

“Yeah, you’re scaring us,” Kira added from her seat on the couch next to Malia.

He wasn’t witty; he was sarcastic.

He wasn’t good with words; he let his actions speak louder.

Which was exactly why he found it difficult to articulate what he needed to. He stumbled on his words and brought his hand up to cover his mouth when he thought he was about to say the wrong thing. He would never admit it but there were tears welling in his eyes as he tried to speak. That was why his gaze moved from the expectant faces to the ground. He had to get his emotions under control before he did anything.

“Lydia...” Isaac let out in a soft whisper. His eyes drifted back up from the floor and absorbed the increasingly anxious expressions in front of him. “Lydia... She, uh... She... There was an, um...”

From the looks on their faces, they knew exactly what was about to come out of his mouth. Isaac almost didn’t have to say the words but he did anyway, his voice breaking halfway through.

“Lydia's dead.”

He knew it was possible but he could almost see the shockwaves run through the apartment as the sentence fell from his lips.

A silence set in.

They all began to process it while Isaac fell back against a chair with his eyes directed toward the ground. He wouldn’t cry. Not yet anyway. He could hear the beginning of Kira’s sobbing which only made it harder to not let the tears brimming in his eyes fall.

He heard feet scuffle against the floor only to stop suddenly. Isaac didn’t have to open his eyes to know it was Scott. He should have waited for Scott to tell them; the alpha was infinitely better at conversation slash had better people skills than Isaac did.

Scott glanced around the room, taking in the feel of the room and the looks on everyone’s faces, before moving over to Kira. She had begun to sob, burying her head in her hands. He took the seat vacated by Malia and held her close to him. His attention became solely focused on his girlfriend, his chin resting on the top of her head while she shook in his arms. It made him thankful that he had broken down on the walk over. He could focus on her needs instead of his own for the time being. He could ensure that he was there for her as she mourned the loss of their friend. Just like he would be there for Stiles and his mom and any other pack member who needed him.

“I need to go see Stiles,” Malia said, effectively breaking the silence. Scott’s eyes drifted up to her and he was a little surprised to see her flushed face and watery eyes. When her gaze met his, he nodded softly as if she needed his approval to be with her boyfriend. Though it was somewhat true; if Scott didn’t want her around Stiles, Malia wouldn’t be around Stiles. Scott wasn’t just his best friend, he was the alpha of their pack and if he thought someone would only do more harm than good, he was pretty sure he could make certain that they weren’t around one another.

Once Malia left, the silence set in again.

Liam eventually excused himself, his eyes filled with tears despite continually wiping them away with his shirt. But the other four stayed in their positions. Derek was standing with his back toward the rest of them as he looked out the broken window. Scott wanted to say something about how emotionally stunted Derek was when it happened.

Derek turned around with werewolf speed and flipped the table in front of him, subsequently breaking it as it hit the ground. The noise startled the other three, who all looked up at him with a similar stunned expression. Derek was breathing heavily while he stared down at the broken pieces of wood strewn across his floor. It was only when he glanced up that Scott could see his tear-streaked face.

“We are going to find the Necromancer,” Derek growled, using his index finger to punctuate his words. “And I am going to tear him limb from limb. Any objections?”

As if it wasn’t already evident that it was a rhetorical question, he walked across the floor, angrily kicking away the pieces of table in his path, and exited the loft. Scott could only hold Kira closer while Isaac stood up and walked to his own room.

Their pack was broken.

And Scott didn’t think they could ever put themselves back together evenly.

* * *

When Derek reached the correct apartment, he almost broke the door in half as he kicked in it. The entire run over there had only fuelled his anger. He was not about to cry, not when he could beat someone up who probably deserved it instead.

It was almost as if he expected Derek because Peter calmly put down his newspaper with a look of exasperation and a sigh as the door to his apartment violently hit the wall. Before he could say whatever witty retort was on his tongue, Derek had his hand firmly grasping Peter’s neck. He lifted his uncle up in the air before slamming him against the wall.

“What the hell?” Peter asked angrily. His claws protracted and his eyes flashed blue in preparation for a brawl but Derek instead pulled his arm back and slammed Peter’s back against the wall with more force.

Derek’s eyes flashed blue and snarled, showing his razor sharp teeth. “What did you do?”

Peter released a small groan and shook his head. “I didn’t do anything. Now let me go before I make a Derek-sized hole in the wall.”

He examined his uncle’s face, trying to determine whether he was lying, before letting him go and taking a step backwards. Peter nodded as a way to show gratitude and returned to the chair he had been sitting in.

“Now would you like to tell me what that was about?” Peter asked.

Derek had no idea whether or not to trust his uncle with it but then again, what could Peter possibly do with the information? Besides, if Peter had been planning to use Lydia’s mind to house himself in case he ever died again, he should probably be aware that the option was no longer available.

He couldn’t believe he had just referred to her as an option.

Silently, Derek turned around and fell back against the wall he had been holding Peter against. After he had rubbed his hand over his eyes, he looked back up at his uncle and let out a small breath. “It didn’t work. The ritual... it didn’t work. I don’t know exactly what happened in there but it backfired... Lydia didn’t make it. She’s gone.”

Peter the self-serving, sociopathic bastard almost looked saddened over it but remained tight-lipped. His gaze moved from his nephew to the floor with a small, succinct bobbing of his head.

“She didn’t deserve to go like that,” Peter mumbled.

Derek swallowed in an attempt to add moisture to his dry throat and shook his head in agreement. “No, she didn’t.”

There was a pregnant pause as the two Hales thought about exactly what it meant to lose Lydia. With each second, Derek could feel himself becoming more emotional and he had to continue to push it back. He wouldn’t express how he really felt about it until he was in the comfort of his own loft and away from the person who had been responsible for many of the worst moments in his life.

“Just so you know, Peter,” Derek let out. He waited until Peter had looked back up at him to continue. “I won’t stop Scott and Stiles if it turns out you played any part in this. In fact, I’ll probably join them.”

Peter was silent for a moment before nodding his head. “Fair enough.”

* * *

Michael re-purposed his Sheriff’s equipment, using the siren to cut through the traffic and not even thinking twice about it. It was due to Scott’s tone during their phone call, which had left him with a stomach-churning anxiety. Nothing bad had happened to Stiles yet he needed to be at home with his son. He knew it had to have something to do with whatever it was the two boys were doing to help Lydia. Something bad had happened, which made him almost put his foot through the floor of his vehicle as he pressed down on the accelerator.

Every second he was driving felt like a millennium. Only when his car came to an awkward park in the driveway of their house did Michael feel somewhat better.

That was consequently changed when he saw Malia in his rear-view mirror running toward the house. Michael didn’t think he had ever gotten out of his car faster than he did at that moment. He almost threw himself in front of the blond in order to stop her. The surprise she felt at the sudden roadblock was evident by the annoyed and stunned expression she was sporting.

“I have to see him.”

“I don’t think now is the best time,” Michael replied sternly.

Malia adjusted herself, flipping her hair back and away from her eyes. “He needs someone.”

“He has me.”

“I think I should be there as well,” Malia responded after a brief pause. He was surprised she didn’t stamp her foot on the ground as she spoke.

“You can speak to Stiles another time,” Michael said with a shake of his head. He knew he should stop there but there was an itch that he had wanted to scratch since his car ride to the hospital with Stiles. His expression changed from caring father to stern sheriff as he looked at his son’s girlfriend. “Say if you want to drag him and his friends down to Mexico to follow an uncertain lead and leave them to be kidnapped and tortured while you run around the desert.”

Malia looked slightly taken aback at the change. They had become close since she had started dating Stiles, considering that she spent most of her free time with him at the house. But after the death of Allison Argent and the Deadpool, Michael couldn’t risk his son being put in danger or losing anyone else just like he couldn’t risk anything happening to the people closest to Stiles.

“Fine,” she huffed before her expression softened. “Just... Just tell him I’m sorry about Lydia.”

The words made his heart clench. Just what the hell had happened to Lydia? In the back of his mind he knew exactly what those words meant but he had to ignore himself. He couldn’t jump to conclusions even if his heart was already beginning to clench.

He waited until Malia was out of his line of sight before he turned and unlocked his door. He braced himself for whatever was about to come if though it was useless. No matter how many times he told himself to breathe and ignore the growing pit in his stomach, Michael still found himself standing in front of his son’s closed door almost shaking with worry as he tried to calm the erratic beatings of his heart.

“Stiles,” he said hesitantly while slowly turning the doorknob in his hand.

The door creaked open and all Michael could do was stand there as he stared at his son’s room with his mouth slightly agape.

It was trashed.

Any semblance of normalcy or tidiness that had once been there was gone.

His investigation board was thrown onto the ground. There were balls of yarn trailing across the floor. The mattress and everything that had been off it had been thrown against the wall. All the posters that had once been on his walls were now scattered. Clothes had been thrown out of the closet while the books and school work that had been on his desk were now in messy piles against the wall. This was definitely not the room he had walked past the previous morning.

His protective paternal instinct kicked in as he ran from the doorway of Stiles’ room. “Stiles!”

He continued to run through the house checking every room but fearing the worst. His son could not be gone. His son could not be kidnapped. Not after everything that happened. Not after what happened to Lydia.

Michael stopped in his tracks when he heard the shower running. His heart beat sped up as he started to run toward the bathroom. The door swung open and Michael came to a skidding halt in the middle of the room.

Stiles was sitting in the shower, in the path of the tap and the water coming out of it. He had no idea how long he had been sitting like that but considering his son was drenched, he suspected it was a while. Stiles glanced up and clutched his legs further against his chest as he did. Michael didn’t say anything. Instead he opened the shower door and sat down next to his son. He didn’t care that he would soon become drenched as well. All he cared about was his son.

“She’s gone, Dad.” Stiles’ broken voice practically echoed throughout the room. The tears in his eyes were apparent now. He moved his head against his father’s shoulder as he began to break down. “Lydia’s gone.”

Michael wrapped an arm around his son, closing his eyes as he did and leaning his head back against the shower wall.

Those were the exact words that Michael had been dreading.

* * *

It wasn’t due to an overwhelming desire to listen to two idiots perform badly scripted comedy on her car radio that Melissa McCall decided to stay in her car and occasionally drive around Beacon Hills for three hours.

No, it was nerves.

It was nerves and sorrow over what had happened in the hospital.

When Allison had died, Melissa had wanted nothing more than to shield her son from the pain that the world had to offer. But she knew she couldn’t because he wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was a leader – an _alpha_ – and that meant he would continue to feel pain and suffering for the rest of his life. Even if she didn’t want him to.

It wasn’t only Scott that she was worried about though.

Stiles had broken her heart when she had seen him on the hospital floor. He had continued to break it in the examination room and her car and she could only begin to imagine what it would be like for Michael to try and pick up the pieces. There was no one who could convince her that Stiles was not connected to Lydia in a profound and meaningful way which was strong regardless of whether they were romantic entangled or not. It hurt her to imagine how he must be feeling.

When she came to a red light, Melissa glanced down at her phone. Deaton had called her thirty minutes ago to ask her to meet him at the Animal Clinic but her hands hadn’t let her. Even though she was exhausted, she had continued to drive through the streets of Beacon Hills until she finally surrendered and began driving in the direction of the clinic.

Her fingers nervously tapped against the steering wheel as she turned into an empty space behind the clinic. Every instinct told her to reverse and drive home; she could not continue to lie to her son. But instead she took her key out of the ignition and slammed the car door behind her.

She stood at the door for a moment, glancing at the closed sign, before pulling the door open and hearing the familiar bell jingle. Why had she agreed to follow along with his plan? What did she really know about Deaton aside from the fact that he was veterinarian that knew about the supernatural in extensive detail?

“I’m in the exam room,” Deaton called out.

There was no going back now.

Melissa walked past the front counter and into the exam room. Deaton was standing behind the metal table examining a glass jar of... _something_. She was still so new to the entire supernatural life that a glass jar that looked like it contained light-coloured sand was just a glass jar that looked like it contained light-coloured sand. The aspect of the jar that made her realize it was supernaturally-relevant was the Celtic symbol plastered onto the sides of it.

“Melissa, I understand your wariness--”

“I didn’t say anything,” she replied, raising her hands in defence as she leant against one of the metal cabinets opposite the door she had just walked through.

“You didn’t have to,” Deaton responded. He put his jar back with the rest of them before releasing a sigh. “I don’t like lying to them any more than you do, believe me. But for the time being, they are better off not knowing.”

“They will _never_ forgive us.”

He nodded his head in agreement. “You’re right. None of them will. Especially not Scott and Stiles.”

What they had chosen to do would cause a rift between her and her boys. Scott, Stiles and even Isaac, they wouldn’t be able to look at her the same way. It had been her way to protect them but it had been the choice that she knew would break their hearts; it had broken her heart to agree with it.

“It was our only option.” Deaton had said it to comfort her and make her feel better about what they had done but it didn’t work.

They stood in silence and waited. They waited until they heard the bell on the door jingle followed by the sound of footsteps making their way into the exam room.

“Good, you’re here,” Deaton uttered with a smile while Melissa moved from her leaning position to stand beside him at the table. He turned one of the cabinets and took out a medical supplies kit. “Let’s get started.”

Lydia stood at the doorway for a second before nodding her head and walking over to them. She already knew that she looked better than she had prior to be admitted into hospital – her color had returned, her skin looked renewed and her head even felt better – but she also knew that Deaton wouldn’t allow them to begin anything important until Melissa had ensured she was okay.

After all, it wasn’t every day that someone ingested an old Druid cocktail given to them by their dog’s veterinarian in order to die and break the connection they had with a necromancer.

Although it seemed kind of normal compared to everything they dealt with on a regular basis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I planned this from the start and there's actually a small throw-away line when they're first at the hospital in chapter 9 that will actually be shown in the next chapter as well as a small throw-away line from Isaac in chapter 8. Please don't hate me because it wasn't just a spur of the moment decision where I decided that I hated the direction I took it and wanted to backpedal, it's always been planned this way.
> 
> Second of all, I hope you all are enjoying it so far. I've planned the seven devils series as a three part series but it kind of depends on whether or not everyone wants to keep reading :)
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading. If you have an questions or comments, you can either comment below or find me [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/).


	12. picture on a silver coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What am I supposed to do?” Isaac asked into his phone, walking up the pathway leading to the Stilinski doorway. “Walk in and ask if we have to start fitting Stiles for a straitjacket yet?”
> 
> He could practically see Scott shake his head on the other end of the phone call. “Actually I was hoping you would be more delicate.”

It had been in the early hours of the morning when Lydia had been able to truly comprehend just how strong her connection with the Necromancer had become. Before it had just seemed like a single, thin thread bound the two but that thread had grown and multiplied in the few short weeks that she had been aware of the danger and the feeling that was associated with it.

She had jolted awake, plagued by yet another nightmare, and found herself sweating. Her unremittingly shaky hands moved to the back of her neck to pull away the hair that was stuck to it while she tried to slow her breathing. At some point in the night, Derek had moved from the chair he occupied to watch over her and taken the other side of the bed. He had then proceeded to fall asleep with his arm tightly wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly to his chest. It was strange to have that kind of physicality from Derek; they never usually held each other afterward, choosing instead to lie close to each other and fall asleep if Lydia chose to stay the night. She had to pry herself out of his grip as softly and quietly as possible so that she wouldn’t rouse him. The last thing she needed was an interrogation by the grumpiest werewolf she knew.

She walked into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face before taking some time to look at herself in the mirror. No matter how much make-up she applied to her face, there was no hiding the effect the Necromancer had on her. Her skin was paler than she had ever seen it which made the bags under her eyes seem much darker. She ran her fingers through her hair, having to again remove the hair that had been stuck to her neck by the moisture on it. Every part of her brain tried to ignore the obvious but it was no use. She knew what was happening.

Lydia Martin was dying.

Lydia picked up her possessions and made sure that Isaac was still asleep before leaving the loft as quickly and as quietly as humanly possible. The werewolves would just assume she ran home for to change her clothes or pick something up. It was the best way she knew to not cause more anxiety within the pack; everyone’s eyes were always on her, always waiting for her to shatter into a million pieces.

Lydia Martin was not a fragile little girl anymore. She just had an infestation that she needed to exterminate.

And there was only one person who she knew could do the job properly.

That was how she found herself standing at the door of the Animal Clinic at 6:33 in the morning, impatiently banging on the glass door. It was growing increasingly difficult for Lydia to focus on anything for longer than a few minutes but she didn’t think her attention had ever been as concentrated as it was in that moment. Nothing could stop her from rapping her knuckles against the window. Lydia would have waited there all day if she had to.

Deaton eventually appeared from the back of the clinic with a weary expression. He glanced at her before tapping his wrist and the non-existent watch that was on it. Lydia’s eyes narrowed in response and her knocking grew more violent. Finally he relented with a roll of his eyes and unlocked the door so that she could enter.

“You would think a person with an I.Q. of 170 would be able to read a sign that says closed,” Deaton remarked as he walked into the exam room.

Lydia followed him, feigning embarrassment and regret. “Oh I’m sorry, is that what you thought? No, I can read. I chose to ignore the sign because it was stupid and didn’t help me in any way.”

He turned around to face her before letting out a half-hearted chuckle. “I’m glad to see your sarcasm’s still intact.”

“It may be the only thing that is,” Lydia replied, resting her hands on the metal table. She took a breath, licking her suddenly dry lips and trying to stop her emotions from getting the better of her. “Something really bad is about to happen. I can _feel_ that something really bad is about to happen... to me. And I know it is selfish considering my best friend lost her life trying to save people she loved and Boyd and Erica died senseless deaths but... I don’t want to die for this. I’m a senior in high school, Deaton. I don’t want to die. I can’t do that to my mom or my dad or... God, I can’t do that to Stiles or Scott either. They _cannot_ lose another friend. So, I need your help.”

Deaton stood there, looking at teenage girl for a moment before eventually nodding his head. He walked out to the back storage room which gave Lydia ample time to blink back the welling tears. Level-headed was what she needed to be right now. When he returned, he had his tray of glass jars filled with Druid plants.

“I need you to call Melissa McCall,” Deaton said, placing the tray on the table and beginning to take out the jars he needed.

“Why?”

His hands stopped moving as he glanced back up at Lydia. “I want to help you but if I do, I need to ensure that I have an... _accomplice _,__ for lack of a better word. Melissa is well-equipped with medical knowledge and honestly, we’re going to need her for the next part.”

Lydia nodded her head in almost blind agreement before taking out her phone. As she dialled Melissa’s number, she turned her attention back to the veterinarian. There was an itch in the back of her mind that she couldn’t not scratch. “What’s the next part of the plan?”

“We’re going to kill you.”

Not what she was expecting.

It was evident by the soft ‘ _oh_ ’ that fell from her lips and the stunned expression that her face was wearing. Lydia composed herself quickly before remarking in a tone that seemed more Stiles-esque than herself; “for a second there I thought it was going to be something dangerous.”

It was 8 A.M. when Melissa arrived. She carried an air of confusion and worry as she burst through to the clinic’s examination room. The confusion and worry she felt only became more prominent when Deaton explained the situation to her. Her eyes continuously darted between him and Lydia, making it apparent that she was beginning to believe the veterinarian was a lunatic.

“You want to kill her?” were Melissa’s first words once Deaton stopped talking. “Are you insane?”

Lydia pushed herself off the cabinet she had been sitting on and moved toward the metallic table Deaton and Melissa were currently standing at. “I know it sounds insane but it isn’t.”

“You want to kill yourself using an old Druid recipe _and_ you want to not tell Scott and Stiles about it,” Melissa reiterated. “That to me sounds like the definition of insanity.”

“Einstein said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results,” Lydia stated with a tight-lipped smile. “Deaton and I are doing something pre-emptive, which is something the pack never seems do, because I can’t help anyone if I’m dead on the Necromancer’s terms.”

There was a silence that set as Melissa thought about. She wore a poker face yet Lydia swore she could see all the cogs turning while she contemplated what they were asking her to do. It meant lying to her son and the boys she considered her sons, which Lydia knew was not an easy choice to make. The three of them in that room had to spout the exact same lie to the pack. The pack which consisted primarily of supernatural creatures who were like living, breathing lie detectors and Stiles. Lydia felt almost nauseous at the thought Stiles’ reaction to what they were planning; it almost made her reconsider it.

After a while, Melissa threw her arms up in exasperation before letting out a groan-filled sigh. “Okay, so what do we need to do?”

The hours passed by without the three even noticing. They were more focused on ensuring that the plan was tight and precise; after all they were going to kill her so it was comforting to have all the ducks in a row. When it was sorted and packed away for the moment in which they needed it most and the first patient of the day arrive, Melissa and Lydia bid farewell to Deaton like it was a normal social visit.

It was only when she was alone, her hands gripping the steering wheel and the white noise in her ears was being somewhat drowned out by whatever song was on the radio, that _he_ came to her.

How could she not tell Stiles about the plan?

He was her...

He was her _Stiles_.

It still made her feel physically ill when she imagined his reaction to her ‘death’. She couldn’t do that to him. Not after everything they had been through.

So Lydia waited in her car until she saw the owner of Deaton’s patient leave before she walked back inside. She was standing beside the exam room doorway as he walked out of the cat section of the clinic. He was visibly surprised by her reappearance but didn’t let it stop what he was doing.

When it was apparent that he wasn’t going to question her presence, Lydia rolled her eyes and moved toward the table he was cleaning.

“I have to tell--”

“You can’t tell Stiles,” Deaton said without even looking up from the table.

Lydia had suspected he would be cautious about letting their plan been known to more than the three already involved but she wasn’t asking to tell the entire pack, she was asking to tell _her_ Stiles.

“Deaton, I can’t...” she began before noticing he seemed more engaged with his cleaning than what she had to say. There was only one solution to that in her mind and that was to take the sponge from his hands and throw it away. She was met with a tired expression from the veterinarian but he still motioned for her to continue.

“Deaton, I can’t not tell Stiles. He deserves to know that while my heart may _technically_ stop for two hours and I will be _technically_ classified as deceased, I won’t _actually_ stay that way. Scott’s strong; it will hurt him unbelievably to think he’s lost another friend but he will persevere. Stiles won’t be able to do that. If he thinks that I’m dead, he won’t be able to help you. Not in the way you want him to. It may sound conceited to you but I know that if I die, Stiles Stilinski will lose his mind,” Lydia said softly, her lips twitching upward slightly at the memory of that conversation after the championship game despite the ugliness that it was shrouded with. She let out a sigh and shook her head. “I know because if it were the other way around, I would lose mine. And I can’t do that to him. Not when we’re getting close to figuring this out. So I’m not asking for your permission, Deaton. I have to tell Stiles and I’m going to tell Stiles whether you like it or not.”

Deaton stood there for a moment, absorbing what she had to say, and even though it seemed like he was about to argue with her, he simply nodded his head. “And what if you don’t get a chance to tell him?”

“Then I trust you to tell him,” Lydia responded without a second thought. “Please, Deaton, he can’t think I’m dead.”

It was the silence that settled between them that made her somewhat nervous that he would say no. Her heart almost sunk at the thought that he wouldn’t do it for her yet the logical side of her brain was repeatedly informing her of all the risks that she was sure Deaton was currently weighing against the prospect of telling Stiles the truth. Every part of her expected the veterinarian to tell her no because it was logical to keep the truth between a small number of people. Instead he simply nodded his head and went to pick up another rag to clean with.

Deaton began to wipe the table, not even looking up. “You should go to school, Lydia.”

She turned to do exactly what he said before stopping herself at the doorway between the waiting room and exam room. Her hand gripped the doorframe for support as she felt a similar feeling to the one she had been infected with in her nightmare that morning.

“Thank you,” Lydia let out softly before inhaling deeply and following his instruction.

On the drive over to the school, she planned what she would say to Stiles. It was going to spiral from informed presentation of facts to heated argument in the Coach’s office in a matter of seconds after she let slip the most important part; it wasn’t exactly like Stiles was going to agree wholeheartedly to letting her die through an ancient Druid ritual. Lydia knew she had to be prepared with a counter to every single one of his argument points or else the whole thing would be a disaster. She lost focus with such ease lately, she couldn’t just rely on her wit or logic to help her through an argument with Stiles anymore. The only way she could do basic things like drive or school work was to pinpoint all of her strength which usually left her exhausted.

There was nothing that could have prepared her for the conversation that occurred between her and Stiles that day when she arrived at school. She had been ready to tell him everything but it had been the way he had been acting that had made her hesitant. Stiles already seemed irritated about something and she doubted that was the best mindset to suddenly bring up the plan she, Deaton and Melissa had organized.

Any intention to tell him that day was lost when the words – “ _Right, because you only sleep with the emotionally-damaged, brooding werewolf types_ ” – left his mouth.

A million thoughts ran through her mind. Hundreds of retorts and comments that she knew could create a bigger divide between them. But all she wanted to do was tell him the plan, even though she knew that she couldn’t.

Every word that left her mouth was what had been bubbling under the surface since Allison’s funeral. She meant every single word of them even though it broke her heart to say them, even more so when she saw the look in his eyes that he was too slow to mask.

His reply stayed with her even as she drove to Derek’s to tell him what happened.

His face was the last thing she saw as she fell to fall.

And in the back of her mind, she knew that she had missed her chance to tell him the truth.

That was why Lydia relied on Deaton to do so. He may not have said the words aloud but she hoped that his nod meant that he would assure Stiles that she would be okay.

When she woke up in the morgue, part of her was relieved that it had worked. The other part – the larger part – of her was terrified to be living one of her recurring childhood nightmares. Lydia had expected either Melissa or Deaton to be waiting for her. At least she had clothes to change into.

Actually getting to the Animal Clinic proved a more difficult feat.

She was dead.

Or believed to be.

So she had to be inconspicuous during the walk over there and all she could do was wonder why neither of her... _accomplices_ , for lack of a better word, had brought her car to the hospital.

Then again, if dead men don’t wear plaid then dead people don’t drive cars either.

It wasn’t long before her escapade of sticking to the shadows and avoiding being seen by the general public led her to the entrance to the Animal Clinic. The jingle of the bell attached to the door sounded her arrival, making sure that anyone inside knew she was there.

Soon enough she was being seated on the cold, metallic examination table and being poked and prodded by Melissa McCall. It was when the blood pressure cuff was being attached to her arm that the thought crossed her mind and her eyes drifted away from Melissa to meet Deaton’s. She had trusted him to do it so she hoped he had.

“Deaton, I wasn’t able to tell Stiles,” Lydia let out softly.

Melissa and Deaton glanced at each other before he shook his head, unwilling to lie to the girl. “I’m afraid I didn’t either, Lydia. Everything happened very quickly. Melissa and I needed to ensure that everyone in the hospital would forget we were ever there, we needed to ensure that the deputies who arrived left thinking it was just a false alarm then we had to make sure we gave _you_ the correct dosage. We had twelve hours in which to do everything which was _before_ the pack decided to try mind-to-mind communication...”

Deaton’s words faded away as Lydia’s brain became occupied with knowledge that Stiles actually thought she was gone. He was somewhere, believing she was dead because she hadn’t told him. Just like she hadn’t told him about what had been wrong with her. The last words that she had left him with her spiteful and nothing like what she wanted him know.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He couldn’t think she was dead.

Lydia’s hand pulled off the cuff while the other pushed her off the table. Before she could move anywhere, Deaton stopped talking and moved forward with lightning-like speed, his hands came up to grip her shoulders to keep her in place despite her movements.

“I can’t do this to him,” Lydia said in a broken tone while still trying to push forward. “Please, he will never forgive me for this.”

Deaton’s eyes moved to Melissa, whose spare hand covered her mouth gently as she shook her head to herself. He adjusted, taking a breath, before loosening his grip on Lydia’s shoulders. He waited until her eyes met his to speak. “Lydia, I’m sorry but you can’t. It’s too late. As hard as it may be right now, I need you to focus. We need to find the Necromancer and rid ourselves of him. After that, you will be able to see Stiles... but until then, he and the rest of the pack have to believe that you’re dead.”

Her eyes drifted away from him as he released his hands from her shoulders. She nodded her head, blinking back the very visible tears, and swallowed the large lump in her throat. “Fine... What do we need to do?”

* * *

“What am I supposed to do?” Isaac asked into his phone, walking up the pathway leading to the Stilinski doorway. “Walk in and ask if we have to start fitting Stiles for a straitjacket yet?”

He could practically see Scott shake his head on the other end of the phone call. “Actually I was hoping you would be more delicate.”

They had called time of death at 2:01 AM and every hour that passed after that felt surreal. So far there had been eight hours. Eight hours in which Isaac had tried to fall asleep and pretend it was all a dream because he couldn’t believe that he was living in a world without Allison Argent or Lydia Martin. Derek had stumbled in sometime after 6 without saying a word, which was around the same time that Scott and Kira had been able to physically move their legs to leave. Isaac had laid on his back and stared up at the ceiling trying to find something to fill the silence with his supernaturally-enhanced hearing.

It hadn’t worked.

Which was why he was more than happy to do whatever Scott asked when he had first called at 9:30. It had been once Kira had finally been able to fall asleep. He couldn’t leave her alone so he wanted Isaac to see how Stiles was. While he and Stiles may not have actually been friends, they were both feeling the loss of Lydia. The only difference was that Isaac was able to mask his grief through sarcasm and he doubted that the hyperactive and sarcastic Stiles Stilinski would be able to do the same.

“So you want me to patronize him?”

Isaac could only imagine the expression on Scott’s face that accompanied the groan from his mouth. “I want you to be his friend.”

He shook his head before knocking on the front door. “But we’re not friends, Scott.”

“Just do this for me,” Scott replied barely above a whisper. “Please.”

Before Isaac could respond, the front door was opened and he was greeted by the Sheriff, who looked all-too happy to see another human being. He was in his uniform with a coffee cup in one hand and a weary expression on his face; he too hadn’t been able to sleep.

“Stiles is in his room and I have to get to work,” the Sheriff said, handing his coffee cup to Isaac.

“Crime never rests?” Isaac replied as he walked inside.

The Sheriff shook his head with a tight-lipped smile. “And apparently neither do I.”

As the Sheriff began to walk out of the house, he turned on his heels and glanced back at Isaac. It was either due to the fact that his paternal instinct was too strong or that his grief over the loss of another one of Stiles’ closest friends was too strong but either way, Michael wrapped his arms around the teenager and brought him in for a close, warm hug. Isaac, being unfamiliar to paternal comfort, took a moment to grasp what was happening before he awkwardly brought his hands up to respond to the hug. Then he fell into it. His eyes began to water, his lip began to quiver and he realized just how much he had missed out on in the father department after his mother and brother had died and his father had turned cold and twisted.

Michael pulled away from the hug and patted Isaac on the shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, kid. I know you’re feeling right now because I am right there with you. Just make sure Stiles is okay while I’m at work.”

Isaac nodded his head, unable to say anything while he tried to compose himself. He hadn’t been prepared for something like that and yet it had been exactly what he needed. He waited until the front door had shut before he walked toward Stiles’ room.

He expected to see the same catatonic Stiles that he had at the hospital.

He expected to sit beside him and offer him support while he waited for Scott to arrive and take over, seeing as how he was better at this type of thing than Isaac.

He had not expected to see what he did when he opened Stiles’ door.

Because what he saw was insane and made Isaac seriously question whether or not Stiles should actually be fitted for a straitjacket.

The room was covered in red yarn. It was attached to each wall and each piece of paper or photograph that Stiles had placed around the room. There were balls of other unused colours rolling around on the floor, which Stiles managed to avoid as he continued to connect one piece of evidence to another. The entire room was a mixture of red yarn and evidence that seemed indiscernible to Isaac yet Stiles seemed to be understanding it just fine. It was only as he turned to his clear evidence board to write something on it with his marker that he noticed Isaac standing at the door.

“So this is what insanity looks like,” Isaac let out instinctively before shaking his head slightly and walking inside the room. “How are you, Stiles?”

Stiles’ eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets. His hair was messy in an unkempt way. His clothes were tattered and old. Yet he didn’t care. He turned his attention away from the werewolf and continued to write something on the evidence board.

“I’m fine. I’m great actually,” Stiles replied, his words coming out quickly and almost indiscernibly. “See, I sat in the shower with my dad last night for about four hours--”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed in confusion as he stopped his quest for an empty space in the room in which to sit down. “What were you two doing in the shower together?”

Stiles waved his hand erratically and continued his fast paced explanation. “That’s not important. Anyway, while I was sitting there, slowly beginning to feel the early stages of pneumonia set in, I realized that Lydia dying was not a big deal. No, it was not because you want to know why?”

“Why?” Isaac questioned in a soft, compliant tone as he tried to grasp the best way to get out the insanity he was currently sitting so that he could call Scott and ask if he had a giant butterfly net.

“Because,” Stiles turned to point to the wall opposite the doorway and the dozen or so pictures that were attached to that particular spot. “There’s a necromancer in town. That’s what I’ve been doing all morning. I’ve read everything there is to know about necromancy and I’ve been narrowing down a list of suspects. Obviously the usual people are on it; Peter, Deaton, Kate Argent, Chris Argent, Morrell, you--”

“Wait, me?” Isaac asked incredulously. “Why am I on it?”

Stiles rolled his eyes as if it were obvious and once again waved his hand in an erratic fashion as if to wave of Isaac’s comment. “Please, you come back from France with no warning after almost six months of radio silence? Obviously there’s something wrong with that. I just haven’t been able to figure out if you’re more of a Peter Hale-type guy or a Matt Daehler-type of guy.”

Isaac stood with a slow nod of his head, his hand moving to grab his phone from his pocket, before he noticed the evidence board. He pointed to the word that had been written in large, neon handwriting. “Who’s ‘HER’?”

“Exactly,” Stiles replied, his eyes almost bulging out of his head yet again this time with a mixture of insanity and exhaustion. He walked over to the board and began tapping it with the end of his marker. “When we were inside her head, Lydia told me I had to see and trust ‘her’. It was cryptic, which I believe was Lydia’s way of letting me know without the Necromancer knowing also. The only problem is, there are many possibilities. Half the population of the world is female. Unless, Lydia mixed up her pronouns in yet another way to fool the Necromancer. I haven’t figured it out yet but give me a few more hours and I will have all the answers.”

“I honestly believe that _you_ believe that,” Isaac said under his breath before excusing himself and walking outside. There were only a few short rings before Scott picked up once again. Isaac cut off whatever pleasantries were about to fall from the alpha’s mouth. “We may actually have to fit Stiles for a straitjacket so I need you to get over as quickly as you possibly can before I drive him over to Eichen House myself.”

* * *

Scott hadn’t wanted to leave Kira but once he had gotten Isaac’s call, he realized that his best friend needed him more. Even though it hurt him to go, there really wasn’t a choice. Stiles was his brother and Scott needed to do whatever he could to ensure that he was going to be okay.

His mother wasn’t at home when he arrived, which was weird to him but at the same time he was glad. If he saw his mom, he would probably break down yet again and be useless to help his best friend.

He bounded up the staircase, wanting to change his shirt quickly, and let out a very manly yelp when he noticed the person sitting on the edge his bed. He had no idea just how long Malia had been waiting there for him but she seemed to have finished one of the novels by his bed so he guessed it was a while.

“This is what I hate about normal humans sometimes. They’re just so stupid. I mean, she swallows arsenic in the end? That’s idiotic,” Malia said before throwing the book aside.

“What are you doing here?” Scott asked, walking into his room and unsubtly checking to see if anything was broken. When he realized everything was fine, he went to his wardrobe to get a new shirt.

Malia glanced down at her lap, pulling her legs further under her, before letting out a breath. “The Sheriff won’t let me see Stiles. From every romantic comedy that Kira made me watch, I’ve learnt that girlfriends are supposed to comfort boyfriends in situations like this and vice versa. But I’m not allowed to be near Stiles and I don’t understand why. So that’s why I’m here.”

He gripped the shirt in his hand as he tried to compose himself. He honestly had no clue of what was about to fall from her lips which was why he needed to have a poker face when he turned to face her. Malia may not have understood some basic things about what it meant to be human but she could detect human emotion better than she let on.

Scott nodded his head, shutting the wardrobe door, before turning around. “Malia, I can’t make the Sheriff do something he doesn’t want to do.”

“No, I don’t want you to. Well I did when I first got here but then I thought about it and now I don’t,” she replied. She shook her head as he tried to speak again. “No, I want to know why Stiles reacted the way he did. He told me that Lydia was one of his best friends but I figured that she was one of yours as well and you haven’t reacted like him. There’s more to the story. I may not understand tact or why you continue to keep the weaker members in your pack but I know Stiles and I know there’s a lot he hasn’t told me. So, as my alpha, I’m asking you tell me. I’m not demanding... I’m _asking_. So please, can you just tell me what it is about Stiles and Lydia that I’ve missed?”

He stood there for a moment, looking at the girl on his bed and contemplating exactly what to tell her. He knew she would be able to detect if he was lying. He had to be honest about it even though he had a feeling that in doing so, he would be a reason behind his best friend’s first breakup. Scott took a deep breath before sitting down next to her.

“Lydia wasn’t just one of his best friends; she was the first girl he ever had a crush on. We were in the third grade and there was just this day where she walked past him and... and he looked at her like he was seeing sunlight for the first time. The sun came out for him that day in the form of Lydia Martin and he never looked back. She barely said two words to him before sophomore year yet he continued to adore her from afar and never questioned it.

“Everything changed when I was bitten by Peter and... _Allison_ came to Beacon Hills. But it wasn’t until the beginning of junior year that he turned to me and told me that he hadn’t actually loved Lydia before. He had said it countless times but he had never understood what it meant or what it felt like. Stiles told me that he understood just how I felt about Allison and how his father had felt about his mother then he told me that he didn’t care about his fifteen year plan because he didn’t want to simply ‘get’ Lydia. He said that Lydia Martin wasn’t something to get and that he would be content to love her from afar if meant that she was happy. Even if her happiness was because of someone else.

“Then he was possessed and he met you. I honestly think that being with you has helped him move past everything that happened when he wasn’t himself. Malia, you allowed him to do something other than think about what happened... but as much as he may like you--”

Malia glanced away from Scott, inhaling a deep breath and blinking a few times, before looking back at him and finishing his sentence. “Stiles won’t ever love me like that.”

Scott dropped his head, hating himself slightly for be the cause of her sadness, and nodded once. When he glanced back up, wanting to say something to comfort Malia, he realized that he was alone in his room. He knew he should run after her but Isaac’s words were running in his head and all he could think about was how much his best friend needed him.

* * *

After Scott arrived, Stiles was free to resume “ _the ramblings of an insane person_ ” as Isaac so delicately put it. The two werewolves must have been sitting on the evidence-free space on his bed for hours as Stiles connected the evidence he had placed around the room. It was genius to him but they didn’t seem to think that.

That was why he faked drowsiness.

He stopped in his movements once in a while to yawn, knowing exactly when to pause in order to make sure they were well aware of his ‘lethargy’. It was only when he released his fourth long yawn and sat at his desk chair that the two werewolves told him that they would come back to his genius another time and let him go to sleep. Stiles was well equipped with years of lying experience, which was why it was easy to pretend that he was asleep when the two conspicuously tried to check in on him thirty minutes later. Scott ended up knocking over the evidence board while Isaac smacked him in the shoulder and they commenced an argument in stage-like whispers.

When he was sure they were gone for good, Stiles left his bed and resumed trying to figure it out.

He was always the one who figured it out.

Now he had to do that for Lydia.

He had to do that because he couldn’t keep living in a world that didn’t have her in it.

Stiles was examining the wall of suspects who could go by the moniker ‘The Necromancer’ when he heard the knock at his window. Not many people besides himself used the window as an entrance. That was how he knew it was her.

Malia sat outside his window, wallowing relishing in the fading light that the sunset brought. There was a sadness to her that Stiles didn’t think Lydia’s death was responsible for. Yet another mystery for him to figure out.

As he slid the window open and began to speak, she held up her hand to stop him. She had been crying and had barely tried to hide it. “I don’t want you to talk. If you talk, I’ll cry again and I don’t like crying. Coyotes don’t cry and right now, I would like to think of myself as a coyote instead of a seventeen year old girl. Coyotes don’t feel heart break; we usually eat them and that is much more enjoyable than this. This hurts and I hate it. It’s nothing like Kira or the romantic comedy genre led me to believe... because it hurts more and I don’t think ice cream will make me feel better.”

“Malia--” Stiles began, his voice emotionless as he reached out to comfort her.

“You don’t love me,” Malia interjected. She moved out of his reach at a speed that would give a non-supernatural person whiplash. “You may like me but you don’t love me. Am I right?”

Stiles nodded his head without saying a word. Malia took this as reason to continue talking. “I could never hold your heart the way you held mine because it was already being held by someone else... and now she’s gone. I don’t know you feel or how I’m supposed to comfort you but I know I can’t do anything as your girlfriend. Which is why I’m taking away the first half of that title because I can’t... I can’t be your girlfriend.”

They were the words Stiles hadn’t wanted to hear yet they made him feel relieved.

He stayed emotionless though because her eyes were brimming with tears and the last thing he wanted to do was make her cry any more than she already had. She was wrong after all; he did love her, just not in the way she wanted him to.

So they sat there in silence for what felt like an eternity. They stared at each other until Malia shook her head and turned away from him. Stiles stood at his window and watched as his first girlfriend disappeared down the dimly lit street. He continued to stay there even when he knew she was long gone. There was something missing inside of him that didn’t let him feel the same sorrow over his first break up that he knew she was feeling over hers.

And Stiles knew exactly what was responsible for that missing part.

That was when he shut his window and turned away from it because he couldn’t bring back Lydia by staring at a street.

* * *

Isaac had third-wheeled with Scott and Kira for most of the afternoon once they had left Stiles’.

Though he didn’t know if he could classify it as third-wheeling considering there was nothing overly romantic about it.

Kira had sat on her couch, crying and producing mucus at an extraordinary rate, while making the boys watch the movies that Lydia loved. Scott seemed enthralled by them and _was not_ crying as he told Isaac. Isaac, on the other hand, could actually feel his brain melting, which led to him internally questioning how watching movies was supposed to help them get through the grieving process.

It was after the third viewing of The Notebook – and the fourth “ _Dude, what? No... No, I’m not crying_ ” from Scott – that Isaac faked a text message from Derek and exited the Yukimura house with an apology and lie to come back later.

Truthfully, he had no idea where to go.

He had no idea what was waiting to greet him at Derek’s loft.

His old house was owned by a young family who were a stark contrast to the previous occupants.

He didn’t even know if Melissa was at home. Or where Chris called home nowadays.

Isaac was a werewolf without a place to go.

There was contemplation over whether or not to go to the railway depot Derek had once called home or just walk around all night but eventually he found himself opening the door to the Animal Clinic.

The bell on the door jingled before Isaac could even think of what to say to the veterinarian. How was he supposed to vocalize what he was feeling and what he needed without breaking down?

Then again, maybe crying _was_ what he needed. Maybe he needed to just cry out everything that he was feeling so that it would continue to subtly hurt him.

He walked past the appointment desk and into the examination room only to stop dead in his tracks.

It could be that he had managed to fall asleep when he had laid in his bed and everything that had happened that day had all been a dream.

Actually it _had_ to be that it was a dream because there was no possible way that the redhead who stood in front of him with a dumbstruck expression was not a figment of his imagination.

No possible way.

Yet he was pinching himself and feeling the sting.

“Okay,” Isaac let out cautiously as he took a step toward someone who looked identical to his most recent dead friend. “What... the... hell?”

A sheepish expression took the place of Lydia’s previous one and her eyes darted to the side entrance where Melissa now stood. Lydia’s hand came up to swat Isaac’s prodding eye, which resulted in his eyes almost bulging out the sockets.

“You may want to sit down, honey,” Melissa said in her maternal tone. Isaac spun around to face her, still completely confused, but willing to listen to someone who he knew had to be real. “We can explain everything.”

* * *

Stiles stood in front of the evidence board, tapping the end of his marker against his chin.

He couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t _let_ himself sleep.

All he could think about was the ‘her’ that Lydia wanted him to see and subsequently trust. There could be any number of possibilities and he was no closer to narrowing them down than he had been when Isaac first came to his room.

His father had walked in a few times, leaving food for him and trying to talk to him, but Stiles couldn’t take his attention away from the board. Even though it made his eyes sore, he needed to figure it out because she trusted him to do so.

Still he couldn’t.

He was supposed to be the one who always figured it out but he was at a roadblock.

He was at a roadblock that he _knew_ Lydia would be able to help him get past.

The only problem was that she wasn’t there.

That was why he needed to figure out who the ‘her’ was because maybe, just maybe, the ‘her’ would be able to help him find the Necromancer and resurrect Lydia.

It was making his head ache trying to decipher her cryptic message. Stiles let out an exhausted groan as his eyes examined the evidence board for what felt like the thousandth time.

“Who the hell were you talking about, Lydia?” Stiles asked under his breath as he tapped the end of the marker against his chin yet again.

The words had barely left his mouth when he heard it. It being the voice he had thought he would never hear again. The voice that said “ _that would be me_ ” and filled the solitude he had had.

Stiles could feel himself freeze, dropping the marker from his hand as he did. It had to be the result of a sleep-deprived hallucination because otherwise... otherwise he couldn’t handle it. How could he handle it?

He had been plagued with that voice for months. No matter what he was doing, he heard her voice. He had woken up in a cold sweat because of that voice. He had had nightmares he couldn’t explain to the girlfriend who previously shared his bed because she had yet to grasp the notion of sympathy or comfort.

No, there was no possible way that he was about to turn around and really see the person that the voice belonged to.

There was no possible way because no matter how screwed up their lives were or how much weird, unexplainable crap they witnessed on a daily basis, there was no possible way that something like that could happen.

Still he braced himself as he turned on his heels to face his bed. When he finally stopped, he honestly believed that all the oxygen in his lungs left in the deep, disbelieving exhale that left his mouth.

Allison Argent was sitting on the edge of his bed.

How was Allison Argent sitting on the edge of his bed?

“What?” was the first word to leave his mouth after the air returned to his body and he no longer felt completely shocked and paralysed.

The second word to leave his mouth wasn’t any better.

“How?”

Allison nodded her head before standing up and walking toward him with an almost sad smile on her lips. She patted him softly on the chest, causing him to flinch as if her touch burned him. He took a step backwards and began rounding her until he reached his bed and was able to sit down. A breath of relief left him before he could stop himself.

At least if he was going crazy, he would be sitting comfortably.

Allison turned to him, still wearing the sad smile which helped to create the bottomless pit that was now occupying the space where his stomach had once been.

“This is where things start to get complicated, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little hard to write considering it was the follow up to an amazing chapter. I hope it was a good follow up because I was quite nervous about it as I wrote it.
> 
> Anyway, this may or may not be the last chapter update for 2014. I'm not entirely sure yet. So, in case I don't get a chance to say it again, I hope every single one of you has a happy holiday and a happy new year.
> 
> If you have any comments or questions, you can either leave a comment below or find me [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/).  
> You can also find what is ~~probably and optimistically~~ planned to come in 2015 [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/works).


	13. a revelation in the light of day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should have said something poignant. He should have said something akin to “ _I’m sorry_ ” or “ _I've missed you_ ”. Instead the words that left his mouth were anything but poignant or friendly. They were nothing like the words that he had spoken in the dreams he’d had involving her after Oak Creek. He was actually surprised as they fell from his lips and his arms erratically gesticulated because it seemed so similar to the person he had been before Lydia took her last breath. It almost physically pained him to revert to the person he had been less than forty-eight hours ago yet still he did.
> 
> “ _This_ is where things start to get complicated?”

He should have said something poignant. He should have said something akin to “ _I’m sorry_ ” or “ _I've missed you_ ”. Instead the words that left his mouth were anything but poignant or friendly. They were nothing like the words that he had spoken in the dreams he’d had involving her after Oak Creek. He was actually surprised as they fell from his lips and his arms erratically gesticulated because it seemed so similar to the person he had been before Lydia took her last breath. It almost physically pained him to revert to the person he had been less than forty-eight hours ago yet still he did.

“ _This_ is where things start to get complicated?” Stiles asked, pushing himself off the bed with force and practically lunging toward Allison in pure anger. “Lydia is dead; it doesn’t really get more complicated than that.”

It was the sombre expression which suddenly eclipsed her previous one that made him make a step backwards and release a regretful sigh. In doing so, he felt the pit in his stomach somehow expand because he had been in a position like this before only it had been Lydia standing opposite him.

“Lydia’s dead?” the words left her mouth in such a soft tone that they were almost inaudible to him.

Stiles knew he should apologize but he couldn’t. “And last time I checked, you were too so I guess I really have gone out of _freaking_ mind.”

He fell back against his bed with his head in his hands. Lydia hadn’t even been gone 24 hours and he was already living up to his unintentional promise to her. If the nice men in the white van came a-knockin’ with a giant butterfly net and a pure white straitjacket, Stiles wouldn’t even object. Life would probably be easier if he had a nice padded room to call his own and spent the day drugged out of his mind; at least then he wouldn’t see Lydia’s face every time he closed his eyes.

Allison cleared her throat, trying to rid herself of her brittle tone of voice.

It didn’t work.

Which was why Stiles’ head left his hands to glance at the friend he thought was dead as she spoke. “I’m real, Stiles. Lydia’s seen me; she’s had conversations with me where she tried to understand exactly what you are trying to understand now. Scott’s seen me; we’ve laid in his bed and spoken about things that only the two of us could know if you want to make sure you’re not losing your mind. But if Lydia is actually dead, we have bigger problems than your sanity.”

“Like what?” Stiles asked, shaking his head softly. “Finding you a host body?”

“No, like the Necromancer getting _exactly_ what he wants.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose with an exasperated groan. “And why would he want Lydia dead?”

Allison didn’t say anything. Instead she opted to walk over to the wall of evidence Stiles had compiled on necromancy and the possible identity of the person responsible for everything. Her fingers trailed along the red thread connecting pieces of evidence that all seemed like gibberish to her. Nothing made sense to her. She had been happy and warm then suddenly it had all changed. Suddenly she was standing in Lydia’s lounge room, staring at the half-asleep Lydia, trying desperately to communicate with her best friend. She had no idea who was responsible for her current state and even if she did, she had no idea whether to thank him for bringing her back or curse him for bringing her back.

“I think I understand why Lydia didn’t trust you.” Stiles’ voice was taut as he observed Allison; part of him believed her but the other part – the strong, tugging part – believed that she was a hallucination. “Cryptic statements and unanswered questions? They don’t really instil confidence... or _trust_.”

“It’s all I have, Stiles.” Allison turned to him before running her fingers through her hair. It was her attempt to maintain her emotions but it wasn’t working well. “Do you think I like not knowing the answers? It _terrifies_ me. I have no idea why I’m here. I have no idea whether Lydia was right and I’m just a gambit or if I even have autonomy over my own body; how do I know that talking to my best friend or Scott or _you_ are my own choices? The only things I know are what I can remember about the Necromancer.

“I have no idea who he is but I know he has an almost pathological obsession with Lydia and if she’s actually dead, he’ll harness enough strength to raise her from the dead by using the Nemeton. I’m 98% sure that I’m his guinea pig,” Allison paused, shaking her head softly before letting out a sigh. “He knew she was going to die by being in the same town as him, Stiles. He planned it. There was a bond between them and normally it would break because of her death, but he caused it. He’ll resurrect then the bond will be unbreakable and he will be able to harness--”

“He’ll be able to harness Lydia’s abilities?” Stiles questioned, tapping his marker against his chin.

Allison nodded her head before inclining her head toward the dresser top that held a framed drawing of the Nemeton. _Lydia’s_ framed drawing of the Nemeton. She held it in her hands, her eyes studying it. “Lydia’s not... There’s something about Lydia. That’s why they connected. There’s something more supernatural about her than we know, Stiles.”

A silence filled the room. He had no idea what to think or say so he sat on his bed. His gaze shifted from Allison – even though he was still having difficultly grasping the fact that she was alive _somewhat_ – to his Necromancer investigation board. There was nothing in what she had said that narrowed down his list of suspects. It didn’t matter to him that she had used the pronoun of ‘he’ because Allison had no idea who the mystery person was. Stiles couldn’t mark off the female suspects on such flimsy evidence.

He stood suddenly, letting the marker fall from his hands and roll under the bed. There was something that she had said which did stick in his brain more so than anything else. He took the chessboard from its usual resting place before pushing piles of papers off the edge of his desk to make space for it. Allison hesitantly walked over to stand behind him as he began to place the chess pieces in their positions. He began taking out post-it notes to stick to the tops of the pieces.

“What are you doing?” Allison asked while Stiles began to move the chess pieces in ways she knew only he actually understood.

Stiles inclined his head to glance at her before pointing to the chessboard. “White always makes the first move in chess. But this time, the Necromancer made the first move by using all of his pawns at once to attack the white queen: _Lydia_. The problem was that Lydia had no line of defence.” Stiles made this point by taking away the white pawns.

“We left her defenceless. Then _you_ – the fallen knight – were brought back and Lydia was drawn to you. You’re her best friend. Even if she was reluctant to trust you, she still spoke with you,” Stiles continued, moving both the black knight and the white queen to the centre of the board. “She was playing his game and _we_ left her defenceless. Until...”

“She fell,” Allison added, moving closer to look at the board.

Stiles flicked the white queen, making it fall and clatter on the board. His fingers moved to the black king moving it toward the center of the board. “And with that, the Necromancer gained the advantage.”

“He wouldn’t win the game until he has the king though,” Allison thought aloud, fiddling with the post it attached to the top of the white king. “So, which one of you is the king?”

“It doesn’t matter which one of us is the king; that isn’t the endgame. The endgame was Lydia,” Stiles replied. He picked up the white queen, placing it on the desk surface, before taking the only remaining queen on the board and placing it where the previous one had once stood. “The Necromancer has our queen and we don’t stand a chance without her.”

* * *

Isaac had been leaning against the cupboards, keeping ample space between himself and Lydia, who had decided it would be best to stand on the opposite side of the room. Melissa acted as a mediator of sorts as she began to explain everything that had happened, only occasionally turning over a question of Isaac’s to Deaton due to their different levels of supernatural knowledge. The conversation lasted almost thirty minutes with Isaac glancing at Lydia every three like he had seen a ghost.

A corporeal, slightly agitated ghost.

When Melissa reached the end of the explanation, Isaac’s gaze drifted between the two adults before settling on Lydia. He took a few hesitant steps toward her as if he felt at any second the floor beneath him would drop out and he would wake up from a dream. No one said anything, just let the silence wrap around them as Isaac continued to walk toward Lydia. The other three had no idea what was about to happen; Isaac’s expression had quickly turned indiscernible, which made them nervous.

Would there be tears?

Would there be anger?

Would he reach her only to take out his phone and demand that she called the rest of the pack to tell them that she wasn’t really dead?

Lydia almost took a step back when Isaac stopped in front of her. He glanced her up and down before attempting to swallow the lump in his throat. “You’re really here?”

Her eyes darted to Melissa and Deaton, who were nodding, even though she knew that both had no idea how to process the scene unfolding in front of them. Lydia’s gaze moved back to Isaac and she imitated her two accomplices with a nod at his question.

“I’m really here, Isaac.”

There was a sharp intake of breath through his nose. Lydia assumed a rant was coming and prepared herself for whatever possible harshness would fall from his lips.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around her tighter than she thought anyone ever had and pulled her into a hug. He shook his head strongly as he continued to hold her, almost afraid that if he stopped, she would disappear completely.

“Don’t ever do that again. Okay?” he asked, voice thick with emotion.

Lydia nodded her head against his shoulder. Her eyes brimming with tears as her hands reached up to complete the hug. “ _Okay_.”

It felt like hours passed while the two stood there in the embrace. Every so often, when it felt like Isaac was loosening his grip, he would shake his head and tug her closer to him.

Isaac Lahey was her _friend._

Isaac Lahey was probably her _best friend_ in that moment.

When had she begun to think of him as her best friend and not the sarcastic, pessimistic, scarf-loving werewolf?

Probably when he began acting like he cared about her and she didn’t immediately think there were any ulterior motives behind the care.

What was going on with her life that had led to Isaac being her best friend, Derek being her closest confidant and Stiles being...

Being _her_ Stiles?

It was all so much easier when she was the vapid narcissist dating the captain of the winning lacrosse team. Even when she was hiding who she truly was, it didn’t hurt as much.

But now?

Now she was the one who tightened her arms around Isaac and held onto him like she was a balloon, threatening to slip away and float into the unknown, and he was a weight, keeping her safe on the ground.

“You’re okay,” Isaac let out under his breath. “You’re okay.”

Again, Lydia began to nod her head against his shoulder. It hadn’t been a question yet she still felt the need to answer him. “I’m okay... I’m okay.”

When the two finally let go, they smiled at each other before Isaac’s gaze drifted to the other two people in the room. Lydia turned back to face the center of the room as Deaton walked toward the examination table with a thick book in his hands. She could almost see a puff of dust escape the slim spaces between the pages as the book hit the surface of the table with a thump.

Deaton glanced up at the two teenagers as they began to lean against the table. What was about to come next had already been discussed between Lydia, Melissa and himself but it was different now that there was a fourth person privy to the information they had tried to keep secret. They hadn’t actually had any contingency plan in place in case something like a pack member walking in and finding the banshee, who was supposed to be dead, alive.

“You need to know everything,” Deaton explained, his gaze falling on the werewolf.

Isaac’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “You and Melissa told me everything.”

The veterinarian nodded his head before letting out a breath and turning the book to face Isaac and Lydia’s direction. “We told you everything that happened prior to Lydia’s ‘ _death_ ’ and how we brought her back. We haven’t told you what’s next.”

“What’s next?” Isaac asked hesitantly as his gaze shifted between the other three.

Melissa and Deaton’s attention turned to Lydia. Her eyes rolled involuntarily before she accepted what they were silently asking of her. She shifted her body to face Isaac, who was patiently awaiting an answer that would calm his nerves.

“I had a connection with the Necromancer--”

“Which you three broke when you temporarily died,” Isaac interrupted.

A slight expression of annoyance crossed her face before she nodded her head. “But in doing so, we also ruined any chance of manipulating the connection in order to identify the Necromancer and his whereabouts. We did attempt to after I came back here but it didn’t work. Basically, we had no idea how to find the Necromancer... until we decided on something that _you_ won’t like.”

Isaac’s eyebrows raised as he looked down at the banshee. “What won’t I like?”

Hesitant silence engulfed the room. Lydia didn’t know whether or not to tell him the truth, instead turning to Melissa and Deaton for guidance. Both had contrasting expressions on their faces that did nothing but further Lydia’s hesitance. Eventually Deaton realized that the words weren’t going to leave Lydia’s mouth and had no other option but to give the answer himself.

“We’re going to manipulate the pack,” Deaton responded bluntly. “Each of them have reacted differently to Lydia’s death but never the less, they will all be incredibly determined to find the Necromancer. All we have to do is wait for that. Then we can use their information and find him before they do. Stiles, Scott and Derek will most likely have an ‘attack first, question later’ approach; we need him alive or else, everything we’ve done is for nothing.”

Isaac absorbed the explanation he was given before his eyes moved from Deaton back to Lydia. “Why do _you_ need him alive?”

“We think he’s working with someone.” Lydia’s answer was spoken without hesitation, ignoring Deaton’s now hesitant expression at the thought of giving away too much. She shook her head. “It’s only a theory but we would rather be sure before we unleash the wolves.”

“ _The wolves?_ ” Isaac questioned. “I think we should give them _some_ credit. They're not ruled by their animal side.”

* * *

Peter strummed his fingers against the bar’s counter. He had never completely understood the appeal of themed bars but at least the crooning cowboy had stopped; that made it somewhat more bearable.

And as if the bar’s atmosphere wasn’t bad enough, the staff left something to be desired.

The strumming of his fingers became less casual as he cleared his throat in an attempt to draw the attention of the bartender. When that didn’t work, the strumming stopped altogether and he instead began snapping his fingers incessantly until the bartender’s head turned to him. It took almost a minute for him to move from his end of the bar to Peter’s.

Even when he had, his attention left the parched werewolf once again and became fixated on the scene unravelling behind him. Peter rolled his eyes, realizing it was futile to continue being polite, and reached behind the counter in order to get himself a drink. _That_ was what gained the undivided attention of the bartender. But all Peter had to do was flash his beta blue eyes at the man and he fell to floor with a mixture of fear and surprise on his face.

Peter shrugged and raised the bottle to his lips, enjoying the pleasant sound of fighting behind him. At the sound of yet another table breaking, he turned on his stool to watch Derek pin a man against the wall, his hand firmly wrapped around the man’s throat. Peter honestly felt a sense of pride while playing audience to his nephew’s violent outburst.

“Let’s try this again,” Derek growled, pulling his arm back in order to slam the man’s head against the wall. “Tell me what you know or you’ll end up like your friends here. They weren’t very helpful.”

As Derek’s grip loosened, the man spluttered and shook his head. “Kate Argent isn’t in California. I don’t even think she’s on the continent. After what happened with that... that _teen wolf’s_ pack and the Calaveras’, Kate went off the grid.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted yet it was the answer he had consistently been given.

His grip on the man’s throat tightened even more as his eyes involuntarily flashed blue. “ _More._ ”

“That’s all I know, I swear,” the man cried out, his fingers futilely clawing at Derek’s hand.

Derek had thought that the fourth bar would be the one but he was wrong. His arm pulled back, bringing the man with him. The man winced in preparation for the collision between the back of his head and the wall. Instead, Derek threw him to the ground that had quickly become littered with unhelpful, supernatural bar patrons. It was either fear of the situation he had found himself in or the connection with the floor that rendered the man unconscious. Peter almost seemed pleased at that, as if it was difficult to listen to the feeble sobs of a broken wendigo.

“We’re done here,” Derek muttered. He clapped his hands together like he was wiping off something before leaving the bar.

Peter took another swig from the bottle. His hand reached into his back pocket, taking out his wallet and counting the bills he took from it. After one final inspection of the bar, he realized that the stack he had taken out wouldn’t be enough. He emptied the remaining monetary contents of his wallet on the bar and nodded at the bartender.

It was only when he was at the door that Peter turned around with a proud smile on his face. “Sorry about all of this. He’s going through something and it seems like he takes after the psychotic side of the family; I always hoped he would.”

Slamming the door behind him, Peter casually strolled toward Derek, who was leaning against his car with an increasing aggravated expression plastered on his face. There was no time to enjoy the peaceful night but that didn’t stop Peter. It was only when Derek’s death glare was directed toward him that Peter rolled his eyes and quickened his steps.

“ _So_ she’s not in the country anymore,” Peter sighed, opening the passenger side door. “Did you really think Kate Argent was the big bad villain again? As if there are no other beings walking the planet who might want to cause us harm than the Argents.”

Derek’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. His knuckles turned white, his foot hit the accelerator and his eyes stayed glued on the road. He didn’t have an answer for his uncle. He didn’t need an answer for his uncle. There was a feeling in the pit of Derek’s stomach; an Argent was involved in the necromancy problem plaguing Beacon Hills.

He didn’t know which one but every indication pointed to Kate. At least to him.

He couldn’t sleep until he found her and practiced some of the Calaveras’ patented interrogation techniques on her.

Because when he did that, he would be able to find the Necromancer.

And once he did that, Derek would be able to tear him limb from limb.

It was a good plan.

He was actually quite proud of his plan.

Not that it showed externally.

* * *

It had been mid-morning when Allison finally disappeared from his room. Stiles had been attaching a piece of paper to his wall, caught up in his own discussion of the lore he had found, only to find that there was no one listening as he turned around for some form of response.

He honestly missed her presence once he realized that she wouldn’t return. Stiles had spent so much time blaming himself for her death and thinking about everything he could have done differently that to have Allison there made him feel...

Better was the wrong choice of word considering he felt like he was missing part of himself but better was how he felt.

At least _somewhat_.

Now all he needed was Lydia.

His fingers trailed across the board before picking up the black queen that he had used to symbolize Lydia. He glanced down at it in his hand, gripping it slightly as his mind ran through what felt like a hundred thoughts at once. There was only one that came to a skidding halt long enough for him to focus on it and make an action plan.

Slamming the queen back on the board, Stiles picked up his jacket and his keys before exiting his room for the first time since he had returned home from the hospital. It was obvious his father had expected him to stay in there longer from the surprised expression and yelp that escaped him as he exited the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

“Can’t talk, be back later.” The words left Stiles’ mouth in a rush that made it seem like the five words were instead only one, which was punctuated by the slam of the front door.

His fingers tapped out an irregular beat on his steering wheel as he drove. The music on his car stereo seemed like white noise to him because he had barely even thought about it.

How had he barely even thought about it?

As the street grew nearer, his heart beat sped up. It felt like his heart was actually trying to break through his sternum and escape his chest like in the cartoons. Except when that happened, it was because the cartoon character was seeing someone they loved or wanted the chance to love. The feeling he was experiencing seemed like the opposite of that. It wasn’t love, it was grief and sorrow and an apologetic pounding in his chest. He could hear the pounding in his ears as he parked at the curb in front of the house.

The walk to the door seemed harder than it ever had before. Each footstep seemed _heavier_. His heart continued to pound against its cage while he fought to even his breathing. The questions flooding his brain only made it harder to form a fist and knock on the door.

How had he waited this long?

How had he not even called?

How was he supposed to say _anything_?

How was he supposed to look her in the eye and tell her how sorry he was when he knew that was the last thing she would want to hear?

His knock was weak and barely audible to him. There was no way that any normal human being would be able to hear that. He raised his fist yet again to knock but was stilled by the door swinging open.

Stiles had expected to see her with smudged makeup or no makeup at all and an altogether messy look like the one he knew he was sporting. Mrs Martin seemed to have other ideas.

There she stood at the door, with Prada by her feet, and all he could think was that normal grieving parents could not pull themselves together like this. Not so soon after the death of their child. That thought alone made his eyes begin to water. He had lost his tether but she had lost her daughter.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” Mrs Martin asked cautiously, her eyes darting across the front yard for some explanation to his arrival and emotions.

He didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t say anything due to the large lump rapidly forming in his throat.

Instead he wrapped his arms around her in a warm, comforting hug. Clearly not what she had expected yet she brought her arms up to complete the hug, patting him on the shoulder to console him. “Why don’t you come inside, honey?”

Stiles nodded and removed himself from her embrace. He wiped the moisture from his eyes as he followed her into the living room. Everything about the house made him think about Lydia, which only made it harder to stop himself from crying. He had no idea how Scott and Isaac could walk around Beacon Hills without breaking down. All he wanted was to leave the house and bring her back but he couldn’t leave her mother here alone either. At least not until he explained that Lydia wasn’t gone entirely. There was hope and that was what the both of them needed. Though Mrs Martin was honestly much better at dealing with her grief so Stiles couldn’t read her exact emotion.

Natalie Martin pointed to the empty lounge as she took a seat in the arm chair beside it. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Lydia. I... She...” Stiles trailed off, his gaze evading Natalie’s as he tried to find the right words for the delicate situation.

“Lydia’s not here,” Natalie answered sincerely with a small smile.

He nodded before taking a deep breath. “I--I know. I was there.”

“Where?”

“At the hospital.”

Confusion spread across Natalie’s face and she leaned forward, trying to understand what the teenager was referring to. “Why were you at the hospital?”

It was Stiles who now also wore an expression of confusion as he glanced away from the window to look at the woman sitting in front of him. “Because Lydia... Lydia, she... I was there to see her and then she was _gone_.”

“Don’t worry, honey, she’ll call you.”

He knew that denial was the first stage of grieving but that didn’t stop him from shaking his head in disbelief. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“What are you talking about?” Natalie let out exasperatedly. She ran her fingers through her hair in a way that reminded him of Lydia was she was annoyed by him. Letting out a sigh, she shook her head. “Stiles, if you desperately need to speak to Lydia, I will get you my phone. But I’ve been substituting at that awful high school for almost a fortnight and sleeping on a motel mattress that could be used as a method of torture so all I want to do is run a bubble bath and pour myself a large glass of wine. Could we hurry this conversation--”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Stiles cut in, standing up as he did and leaving the room before Natalie could respond.

His fingers fumbled with his phone while he stood against the bathroom door. Either Beacon Hills Memorial was exceptionally terrible at giving bad news or there was something really wrong. In the back of his head, he _knew_ it was the latter because there was a Necromancer in town after all. But he had to be sure. He needed to be 100% sure or else he thought his head might explode; it was already beginning to feel like his brain was too large for his skull.

“Stiles?” Scott’s worried tone echoed in his ears and only furthered the scared beating of his heart. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

Stiles shut his eyes, shaking his head as he did. “I have no idea. But I need you to go to the morgue and ask for Lydia’s body.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone call. It was followed by a concerned “ _um..._ ” from Scott.

“Please, Scott, okay? I don’t _want_ her body, I just need to know that it’s there.”

“For closure?” Scott asked in a genuine curious voice. Stiles could only imagine the face that accompanied the tone of voice.

At any other time, it would have been heart-warming to Stiles but in that moment, Stiles rolled his eyes and groaned into the phone. “ _No_... Scott, can you please just do this for me?”

Another silence filled the phone call.

Maybe it was the silence in which Scott silently told someone that they needed to call Eichen House and find a butterfly net to catch Stiles with so they could calmly take him to his new padded home.

Luckily for Stiles, his best friend was willing to go along with his schemes and shenanigans. Scott was most likely happy that Stiles wasn’t asking him to _break into_ the morgue.

“Okay. Kira and I are going now,” Scott said before hanging up the phone.

Stiles continued to keep the phone against his ear long after Scott was gone. He couldn’t leave the room and face Natalie.

Her daughter was dead.

How was she unaware of that?

That questioning thought made him feel physically sick.

Which was why he slid down the door and used it as support while he sat on the cool bathroom tile. Hopefully Scott and Kira would be able to give him a good answer that made sense of the whole situation without reinforcing the thought that the Necromancer had resurrected Lydia for his own bidding.

_Hopefully._

* * *

The morgue was not exactly a premium date location but it was where Scott and Kira found themselves on their not-a-date grieving date. Neither of them would actually call it a date because it seemed rude but there was something about being blissfully ignorant to what happened for a short period of time. They had been wrapped up in each other’s arms, pretending that the outside world didn’t exist and they hadn’t just lost someone close to them, when Stiles had called. Once the real world came in, there was no getting rid of it.

So they stood together at the door to the morgue, wondering what exactly they were going to say. Kira’s foot anxiously tapped against the linoleum while Scott continued to glance up and down the hallway in an attempt to find some sort of second entrance.

He was not going to break into the morgue; he had enough fuel for his nightmares.

“Can you cry on demand?” Kira asked, breaking the silence, as she stared up at him.

Scott’s eyebrows furrowed together before he shook his head. “I don’t know, I’ve never tried. Why?”

After making sure there was no one who listen to their conversation, Kira nodded to herself and smiled, pleased with her own plan. “If you cry, we can say that you’re a distraught family member.”

“Will that work?”

“I don’t know but I really don’t want to break into the morgue,” Kira let out softly.

That made two of them.

Scott’s brain ran through all of the memories that could cause him to break down. It skipped past the _one_ he had promised himself that he wouldn’t think about unless he had to. But after everything, he knew he had to think about it and use it to con their way into the morgue’s information. The thought that both Allison _and_ Lydia were gone brought tears to his eyes. Kira beamed with pride at the prospect of her plan working but still had a glimmer of remorse as if she knew the exact way he had caused himself to cry.

Her arm linked with his and they walked into the morgue; Kira with a solemn expression and Scott with tear-streaked cheeks. If he saw the two of them, he might actually believe them.

They reached a man behind the desk, who seemed more interested in playing computer card games than doing his job. Kira tapped on the desk with her free hand until he looked away from his screen. It was clear he wanted to be doing anything besides sitting in that chair, only a few feet away from death.

“How can I help you?” he asked in a bored, monotone voice.

“My boyfriend, he... He recently lost his cousin. He was wondering if he could see the body,” Kira responded, a bittersweet smile crossing her lips that Scott believed. Kira was surprisingly good at conning people. Or at least better than she had once been. Maybe the trickster side of her was waking up.

The man rolled his eyes and turned back to his computer screen. “Name of the deceased?”

“Lydia Martin. L-Y-D-I-A M-A-R-T-I-N.”

He typed it in to the database. With a disinterested shrug and a shake of his head, the man turned his attention back to the two teenagers. “We don’t have anyone by that name.”

Kira and Scott’s eyes met in a confused glance before Scott unlinked their arms and leaned over the desk to look at the screen himself. “How is that possible?”

“Maybe someone lied to you. Like a really late April Fool’s joke. I don’t know,” the man replied before returning to his game. It was clear they weren’t going to get any more information from him.

Scott fished his phone out of his pocket as he and Kira left the morgue. Both wore a similar perplexed expression while they walked in silence. Scott was too busy scrolling through his contacts for Stiles’ number to even begin to question what had happened.

“Stiles-- Stiles, listen to-- Stiles!” Scott all but shouted into the phone. “They don’t have her body. I have no idea why but they don’t.”

* * *

His heart sank.

Everything that Scott said after that failed to stick in Stiles’ brain as he shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the Martins’ bathroom door.

The Necromancer had Lydia’s body.

The pack had no chance of defeating him when he had her.

But they still had to try.

“Scott... Call everyone, we need to have a pack meeting at Derek’s,” Stiles said softly before hanging up.

A surreal feeling took over his body; it made him feel almost weightless. He pushed himself off the bathroom floor and left the room. Natalie was still in her armchair, only now with a half-empty glass of wine in her hand. Stiles tried to form a sentence but had difficultly, instead giving her an awkward wave and an almost silent “ _sorry_ ” before leaving.

The walk to his Jeep seemed longer than it had been before. Maybe it was because he had the knowledge that the Necromancer was going to manipulate Lydia in order to raise the dead. Or because that was it, Lydia was under his spell now.

Before Stiles had thought that there could be a chance that the Necromancer would be able to bring Lydia back without having them be connected but now reality had set in.

The fact that reality to him was someone being able to bring people back to life made him shake his head. What would their lives have been like if Stiles hadn’t listened in and dragged Scott out to Beacon Hills Preserve that fateful night? Where would they be if he hadn’t? Probably dateless and still on the second line of the lacrosse team but at least no one would be dead.

<p?Stiles climbed into the driver’s seat and his fingers resumed their irregular tapping on the steering wheel. One hand reached to pull on the seat belt before he stopped. The weightless feeling had been replaced with a feeling he couldn’t actually explain. He sat there still with one hand on the seat belt and the other lightly placed on the steering wheel, the finger tapping having stopped once the feeling engulfed him.

His heart beat sped up as the fear continued to grow in him. Slowly he removed his hand from the seat belt and began to turn to face the back seat.

He was a perfectly rational human being, who was only cautious because of everything he knew.

He knew that there wasn’t going to be anyone in the back of the Jeep.

Stiles _knew_.

His head was barely between the two seats when a blunt force instrument violently connected with his forehead. It caused him to lose consciousness with the first half of the profanity that was bouncing around in his head leaving his mouth in an annoyed and scared tone.

“Oh fu--”

* * *

“Mom, what do you mean Stiles was there?” Lydia asked as she paced nervously across the exam room’s floor. The clicking of her heels filling the silent pauses in their conversation.

Deaton, Melissa and Isaac had left once they had received a similar call from Scott about an emergency pack meeting that was left completely vague. They had no idea what they were about to walk into yet they had left regardless. There was something nerve-wracking about being alone in the Animal Clinic. She couldn’t put her finger on it but there was something that caused goosebumps to rise on her arms.

“Lydia, please, I’m tired. When I say Stiles was here, I mean that Stiles was here and acting incredibly strange... More so than usual,” her mother added with an incensed sigh. “Now, can I go?”

“Sure,” Lydia sighed.

“I love you, honey.”

Lydia smiled softly, leaning into the phone and wishing she could be there with her mother. “Love you too, mom.”

Instead of putting the phone down once the call was over, Lydia kept it in her hands in order to tap it softly against her chin. Having something to occupy her made her somewhat less nervous but there was a growing abyss in her stomach as she paced.

She knew exactly why she couldn’t be with her mother but that didn’t make it any easier. There was no way Lydia would introduce her mom to the supernatural world through a kidnapping by a deranged necromancer. A time would come when Lydia would be able to tell her mother the truth without it resulting in a one-way trip to Eichen House but until then, her mother would have to live in blissful ignorance and Lydia would have to lie and stay away from her in order to keep her safe.

All she wanted in that moment however was a warm hug from her mom.

That would quell the pit in her stomach.

The doorbell jingled and Lydia ran toward the waiting room unhesitatingly. She expected that it would be Deaton given that the rest of the pack had been summoned for the emergency pack meeting at Derek’s. The Animal Clinic was closed after all so who else would it be besides the only veterinarian who worked in the building?

Her feet came to a skidding halt as her eyes widened at the arrival. At least she knew the reason behind the bottomless pit that had taken the place of her stomach.

_Brunski._

Brunski who stood at the counter, staring at her with a morbid curiosity as he slowly trailed a Taser along the countertop.

He was back. The man who haunted her nightmares and caused her to wake up in a cold sweat. The man who murdered her grandmother and tried to murder her and Stiles. _He_ was back.

“I see we both have friends who can bring us back from the dead, Lydia,” he let out menacingly.

Lydia’s hand reached back to grab the doorframe for support but Brunski brought an index finger up to reprimand her, accompanied by tsks. As she took a step back into the exam room, Brunski opened the gate and stepped into the reception area. There was only a small space between them but if Lydia could move fast enough, maybe she could lock herself in one of the back rooms and crawl out a window.

_If._

It was when she turned around to run that Brunski’s free hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her up off the ground and flush to his chest. His disgusting hot breath against her ear made her feel nauseous. No matter how hard she tried to pull away from him, the tight grip of his arm stayed.

“And here I was hoping that we could do this the pleasant way,” Brunski said. The hand that was holding the Taser came up to her hair, his fingers tucking stray strands behind her ear. He sighed against her before turning on the Taser and placing it against her neck. Lydia’s kicking stopped as she slumped over his arm. “Oh well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember if Brunski is dead on the show but for the purpose of this fic, he was dead. _Was._
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter took so long. I've been dealing with some things that made me suffer writer's block and anger (not a good combination). Also there was a lot of chess in this chapter, I'm sorry. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> If you have any comments or questions, either leave something below in the comments or find me [here](http://sorbusaucuparias.tumblr.com/).


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